Steele in Wonderland
by RSteele82
Summary: (Canon Series) Laura and Remington return home from London and face many surprises. Have they been living a dream, believing the promising future they envision together is set in stone? Or will they wake from a nightmare, proving the real dream was in believing they could make it through all the hurdles they'd face together and whole?
1. Chapter 1: Welcome Home

A/N: London, you are in my thoughts and prayers...

* * *

 ** _The Canon Series_**

 ** _Laura and Remington return home from London and face many surprises. Have they been living a dream, believing the promising future they envision together is set in stone? Or will they wake from a nightmare, proving the real dream was in believing they could make it through all the hurdles they'd face together and whole?_**

 ** _For the most effective reading, my work should be read in chronological order as many of my one off's are spun into the history of the characters later on down the line. The chronological order of what I've written to date are as follows:_**

 ** _Steele Torn & Trying to Holt On_**  
 ** _Cannes Steele be Trusted (co-written with the super-talented SuzySteele)_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Forsaken_**  
 ** _Steele Mending_**  
 ** _Steele Working out the Details_**  
 ** _Steele Settling In_**  
 ** _Steele Finding Comfort_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To Christmas_**  
 ** _Steele Holting on To The Holidays_**  
 ** _Holting on to the Moments_**  
 ** _Steele Cold Relief_**  
 ** _Steele Cloned_**  
 ** _Steele Hurdling Obstacles_**  
 ** _Steeling the Big Apple_**  
 ** _Steele Dying to Get it Right_**  
 ** _Holting Steele - Part 1 of the Be Steele My Heart series_**  
 ** _Be Steele My Heart – Part 2 of the Be Steele My Heart series_**  
 ** _Steele Pursued – Part 1 of the Steele Tested series_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Tested – Part 2 of the Steele Tested series_** _ **  
**_ ** _Steele Thankful  
Down the Rabbit Holt - Part 1 of the Steele in Wonderland series  
Steele in Wonderland - Part 2 of the Steele in Wonderland series_**

 ** _Standard Disclaimers apply: I hold no ownership or rights to the series or characters. I simply choose to borrow the characters I love to write._**

* * *

Chapter 1: Welcome Home

Laura groggily pried open her eyes at the touch of a stewardess's hand upon her upper arm.

"We'll be landing in ten minutes," the young woman informed her apologetically. "The pilot has called for seats up and belts on."

"Of course. I'm sorry," she answered, sitting up and righting her seat before snapping on her belt as the stewardess checked on other passengers. Laying her head against the cool window, she stared out at the clouds as she tried to rouse herself fully.

She'd spent the first several hours of the flight lost in thought and uncomfortably aware Remington should have been in the seat next to her. Instead, he'd remained behind in England to wrap up the legalities of assuming his birthright: The Earl of Claridge and the entailments which accompanied the title. Not to mention, far more significant in her mind, getting to know the man who science had proven unequivocally to be her husband's father: Thomas James Fitzgerald III, aka Kevin Landers, current Marquess Westmoreland, Earl of Mayo and Viscount Stafford, and prior Earl of Claridge.

As for herself? Homeward bound, for no other reason than there was Agency business demanding to be conducted, business already set aside for ten days as they'd pursed the 'why' of Anthony Roselli entering their lives and turning it inside-out. With that mystery now solved, it was time to turn their minds towards the Fournier security contract which would handsomely line the Agency's coffers and to the expansion of the Agency, both physically and in terms of personnel. Interviews of potential associates and trainees were scheduled to begin on Monday as was the expansion of the offices into the suite next door. There was no debate: one of them had to return to LA, and it couldn't be Remington.

So, here she was on the flight, alone, alternately missing his presence then thoroughly chastising herself for the same. During their days at Ashford, she'd realized she wasn't consumed by Remington, as she feared would always happen if she gave herself over to them, but she was most definitely consumed _with_ him. The simple fact was she really, truly enjoyed her husband for the person he was, and what that person was to her: partner, closest friend, lover and most recently husband. She knew, absolutely, that she was perfectly capable of functioning on her own without him… unlike her mother who'd become a shell of a woman for a long time after her father had abandoned them all. She would tarry forward competently without him, authoritatively seeing to what needed to be done and she'd even enjoy herself in doing so. She loved her job and there were many out there that couldn't say the same. It was just all the richer, all the more… fun, with him at her side while they bickered, bantered and brainstormed.

She turned her thoughts to what the week ahead held. Her nieces and nephew, today, of course, almost immediately upon disembarking from the plane. Frances had rushed off to Connecticut after being informed by their Mother's neighbor that Abigail was recovering from a bout of pneumonia, and with all their babysitters previously booked up, Donald had been left high-and-dry with clinicals he was to oversee today, then, of course, carpool on Monday. Thus, Laura had been drafted, not that she would have refused anyway. Just as she was incapable of turning her back on a case, she couldn't turn her back on family obligations, unlike the family gatherings from which she'd gladly, and often, had fled from. On Monday, Monroe's men would begin the upgrades to the first of the Fournier stores, carefully following the specifications set out by Remington in the plans he'd drawn up before their departure for London. She wouldn't need to check in on the progress until Tuesday at the earliest. Construction on the expansion was to commence Monday morning, but, again, Remington had carefully drawn up plans and instructions for that as well, so she didn't imagine too much of her time would be devoted to overseeing the work, but would more likely revolve around making sure it met her and Remington's standards. Client meetings were a snap, she could do those in her sleep.

Which left the first round of interviews for the new associates or apprentices. In truth, Remington's absence for those was more likely than not a blessing in disguise. While over the years, most notably the last two, he'd become much more serious about, devoted to their work, Remington would still always be Remington. He'd quickly be assessing each candidate to determine who'd be most easily swayed to accommodate his needs: dry cleaning to be picked up, tea to be made, newspaper to be laid out, tickets to special events to schmooze. She could weed out only the most serious contenders and then pray whoever was offered the job after interviewed by she and Remington, together, would be able to resist her husband's charms.

With that thought in mind, she'd finally closed her eyes. She laughed quietly to herself shortly before she drifted off to sleep, admitting to herself she'd not been wholly immune to his charms herself.

* * *

A nightmare. That was the only way to describe her day. Fred had dropped her off in Tarzana at eleven-fifteen, ending then and there her fantasies of an easy day of playing card or board games with her nieces and nephew, keeping them occupied until Donald returned home from work. She'd even gone so far as to vow to herself she'd teach Danny how to throw a slider today. She might not be able to offer Mindy any pointers in painting with watercolors, but her nephew? Well, she had more knowledge about baseball than Frances, Donald and Remington combined.

She should have known by the harried look on her brother-in-law's face that the day would not go as planned, but she'd remained blissfully ignorant. Hugs and pecks on the cheeks exchanged, he quickly gave her the rundown.

"Danny has baseball practice at three this afternoon. Mrs. Mulroney has volunteered to pick him up. Laurie Beth has already been to dance class and is refusing to take off her tap shoes. You might have to do some fast talking to pry them off her feet. Mindy woke with a stomach ache and is laying down on the couch watching cartoons. I left money on the kitchen table so you could order in for lunch. Thanks for doing this, Laura," and with another peck to her cheek, he'd fled as though the hounds of hell were after him.

She discovered why as soon as she walked into the family room. Mindy and Danny were bickering on the couch, while Laurie Beth tap-tap-tapped her way across the tiled floor towards her.

"Where's Uncle Remington?" the little girl inquired. Bending over, Laura pressed hands on knees to bring her down to Laurie Beth's eye level.

"I'm sorry, but he won't be coming today. He's still in England." The little girl looked up at her, confused.

"What's England?"

"Another country far away from here," Laura explained.

"You sent Uncle Remington away?" Laurie Beth asked, wide-eyed.

"Not at all. He's visiting his family." Laurie Beth held her arms out to her side, hands palm side up.

"I'm his family. Doesn't he want to visit me?"

"He's visiting his _real_ family, Laurie Beth," Danny interjected from the couch, where he was busy shoving Mindy's feet away from himself.

"I'm his real family, too, _Danny,_ " she insisted, planting her hands on her hips.

"Of course, you are," Laura assured.

"No, you're not," Danny overrode Laura. "You're only family because Aunt Laura married him." Slapping Mindy's feet away from him again, he yelled at her. "Keep your feet to yourself, Mindy. I'm _trying_ to watch _Star Wars: Ewoks._ "

"Dad said I could lay on the couch," Mindy yelled back, kicking at his hand. "Go sit in Dad's chair!"

"It that true, Aunt Laura? I'm not Uncle Remington's real family?" Laurie Beth asked over the arguing.

"I want to sit on the couch, so stop hogging it!" Danny hollered, slapping at her foot again.

"Of course you're Uncle Remington's real—" Laura began only to whip her head around when Danny began bellowing.

"Mindy! Oh, geeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeez. That's gross! I'm gonna be sick," Danny yelled bolting from the couch, just in time for Mindy to throw up again. Laura scrunched her eyes closed. _This_ _can't_ _be happening,_ she tried to convince herself. But, of course, it was.

"Danny, go shower and change in your parent's room. Mindy, do the same in your bathroom." She paused and thought about the last direction. "Do you need me to help you?" Mindy's eyes widened in horror at the thought.

"I'm twelve, not a baby like Laurie Beth," she protested, then gagged again.

"I'm not a baby! Take that back, Mindy!" Laurie Beth yelled in offense.

"You are too!" Mindy insisted, then clasped her hands over her mouth and bolted down the hallway towards the children bedrooms. Laura groaned, fairly certain Mindy hadn't made it to the bathroom in time and there was another mess waiting to be cleaned up. Tilting back her head to look at the ceiling, she pressed the back of her hand to forehead.

"You have _got_ to be _kidding me_!" she mumbled aloud, then with a harsh sigh looked down at Laurie Beth.

"Honey, can you show me where Mommy keeps the bucket and sponges?" Laurie Beth nodded her head eagerly, then began to tap-tap-tap her way towards the kitchen.

"Babies can't do that, you know," she informed her aunt.

"No, no they can't," Laura agreed wearily, afraid to wonder what lay in store for the rest of the day.

* * *

By the time she collapsed into bed at nine-thirty that night, she'd sworn off the idea of having children for a long, long time. She'd ordered in pizza for lunch, pineapple for Laurie Beth, pepperoni for Danny and as for Mindy? She'd ordered a couple of cans of 7-Up to be brought with the pizza, her Mother's go to for upset stomachs when she was a child. She knew not a thing about taking care of sick children, but the memory of her Mother saying over and over "It's important you drink something, Laura. Just a couple of sips at a time. That's it, let's see if it stays down." The 7-Up had been a hit. The pizza? Well, lesson learned there.

Laurie Beth had noticeably deflated as the afternoon passed. She'd finally been cajoled out of the tap shoes and Laura had agreed to a game of Chutes and Ladders as a reward for her cooperation. By two-thirty, Laura was glancing at her watch hopefully, but found time was still dragging by at a snail's pace. Laurie Beth had stretched out on the floor to play with her Barbies listlessly, Danny was getting ready for ball practice and Mindy was sleeping with a bucket next to the side of the bed, ready for the next round. She wondered vaguely if Laurie Beth still took afternoon nap and Donald had failed had to fill her in on that little detail. She was certain her suspicions were correct when the little girl climbed up onto the chair Laura was sitting in and curled up in her lap. Stroking her niece's hair, Laura leaned her head back and closed her own eyes.

"Aunt Laura?" The little girl calling her name had Laura opening her eyes and smiling down at her. The little girl had gazed up at her with doleful eyes, and she'd realized in a split second where she'd seen that look before. Launching both of them from the chair, she ran with her niece still held in her arms towards the bathroom, then grimaced at the sound against her chest and the sudden wetness. Her own stomach lurched at the smell wafting up to her nose, and she could only thank the stars the little girl's head was over the toilet for the next round.

Fifteen minutes later, Laurie Beth has been stripped, washed down with a wash cloth, dressed in a nightgown and put in the bed across from Mindy's, the bathroom trashcan next to her bed. Leaving the bedroom, she passed Danny on the way to his parent's rooms to borrow something from her sister's closet.

"Holy Pete, Mindy got you, too?" he asked with rounded eyes.

"Laurie Beth," she said, with a shake of her head.

"Oh, geez, her too?" he commiserated.

"Danny, can you please just stand by their door in case they need anything while I get cleaned up?"

"Gee, Aunt Laura, Mrs. Mulroney will be here to get me in just a minute." Laura glanced at her watch.

"In ten minutes," she corrected with a glance at her watch. "I'll be back in five." Without waiting for an answer, she raced to the master bedroom.

She was, indeed back in five wearing a pair of Frances's jeans that she'd had to belt herself into and a t-shirt she found in Donald's drawer. She drew the line at borrowing underwear from her sister, and it wouldn't have fit anyway. Looking at her ruined silk blouse morosely, she'd taken both pants and skirt and threw them in the kitchen trashcan. Even the dry cleaners wouldn't be able to save the pizza stained clothes. By the time Donald arrived home, she'd scrubbed up the hallway floor, had begun a load of wash and had taken the trash out. She'd nearly laughed at the look of panic which had crossed his face when she'd alerted him he had two sick children on his hands. She'd briefly considered making a mad dash for the door, much as he had several hours before, but her fondness for her brother-in-law won out and she volunteered to stay until both girls were settled down for the night.

"As much as I'd love the help, I don't want you catching whatever is they girls have. Remington would have my head if—"

"Remington is in England," she interrupted to remind him. "And even if he were home, he'd know better than to tell me what I will or will not do. Besides," she shrugged, "I never get sick."

"If you're sure," he hesitated.

"I am," she insisted, with a brisk nod of her head. _If I'm not knighted to sainthood for this_ , she thought to herself, _it damn well makes up for two months of missed, every other weekend luncheons and I dare Frances to say otherwise_.


	2. Chapter 2: Conversations of Steele

Chapter 2: Conversations of Steele

Fred hadn't dropped her at home until a little before nine-fifteen on Saturday evening. She'd gone straight upstairs to shower, then slipped into one of Remington's pajama tops, before going back downstairs to the kitchen. Making herself a cup of tea, she rummaged through the cabinets and refrigerator in search of something to eat. She'd managed a slice of pizza at lunch, but had turned down Donald's offer to make dinner. Finally, opening the freezer she was relieved to find it was stocked with any number of meals that Remington had pre-made as if he'd known she'd arrive home before him. Settling on the mouth-watering shrimp and callaloo soup he'd made the week they departed for England, she put it in the microwave to heat while keeping a careful eye on the clock. By ten o'clock her bowl and tea cup had been washed and put away and she was tucked under sheet and comforter in their bed when she reached for the phone.

"Steele, here," Remington's rich, and surprisingly alert voice, came over the line.

"You're awake," she noted, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice.

"For you? Of course, I am," he hummed. Her warm laugh was like a tablespoon of honey when one had a sore throat… positively soothing. "You survived the children, then?"

"I've made a decision, Remington," she said in lieu of an answer.

"Oh? About?" Laura making a decision after what was presumably a trying day seldom boded well.

"I've decided to go back on the pill next weekend." She closed her eyes and waited for the sound of abject disappointment in his voice when he answered. Instead, he chuckled. Opening her eyes, she frowned at the receiver. "I'm serious, Remington. I'm going back on the pill."

"Made them your spaghetti again and they staged a revolt, did they?" he teased.

"Mr. Steele," she said slowly, the warning in her voice clear, "I have spent the last eight and a half hours, scrubbing more floors than I have in the last year and doing more loads of laundry than we normally do in a week. I have watched Mindy throw up on Danny, only for Laurie Beth then to throw up all over _me,_ after which I had to use every ounce of the self-control I used to hold _you_ off for four years just so I didn't get sick myself."

"Your cooking's not as bad as all that, love. At least I don't recall you every poisoning someone with it," he deadpanned. Running her tongue around the inside of her mouth, she tried not to laugh at his absolute audacity but in the end a wide smile spread across her face, displaying a set of dimples he'd have paid to see about that time, then her laughter trickled over the line to his ears.

"You're incorrigible," she admonished.

"So you've said repeatedly across the years." He grew somber. "Ah, Laura, I wish I were there to see the smile I hear in your voice." She fingered the bed next to where she lay.

"I wish you were here in our bed with me," she admitted quietly. She heard his sharp intake of breath. It was still rare she'd make admissions such as that, implying she needed his presence as much as he did hers.

"As do I, mo chéadsearc, as do I. I could just hop on a —"

"No, you won't," she cut him off. "Tell me about your day."

"Thus far it's begun most wonderfully, as I received a phone call from my lovely bride only shortly after I awoke. And now? I'm envisioning her lying in our bed at home wearing…" He frowned. "What are you wearing?" Her laughter wafted across the wires again.

"Your pajama top," she offered.

"Color?" She glanced down at herself.

"Blue."

"The royal or navy?"

"Navy."

"A lovely shade on you. Reminds me of a piece of lingerie with which you tempted me only two nights past. Mmmm, yes, a lovely way to start the day, enflaming my imagination as you are." She sighed and shook her head.

"What am I going to do with you?" she asked, laughing again.

"A man can only hope any number of wicked things once I arrive home," he suggested in a deeper tenor. She could see the waggle of his brow in her mind's eye even though he was a thousand miles away.

"Oh, I think you can count on it," she assured, then tilted her head to the side in thought. _There was a time the idea terrified me, but it's nice_ , she smiled to herself.

"What's that, love?" She frowned, feeling she'd missed out on a part of the conversation somewhere.

"What's what?" He smiled in his bed in their townhome. _Caught you thinking aloud, did I?"_

"Whatever it is you believed would be terrifying but instead is nice." She crinkled her nose, realizing she'd done it again. Reaching for his pillow, she brought it up against her and wrapping her arm around it, shrugged her shoulders.

"Knowing you so well that I can picture you, right now, lying on your side, head propped up by your hand, as though you were lying in bed at home talking to me. Your hair sticking up on the sides and hanging down over your forehead, your face with its morning stubble." She rested her chin on his pillow. "And, I'd _wager_ ," she drew out the last word, "Since I'm not there to wear it, you're wearing both the top and bottom of your pajamas." He was chuckling before she was finished. She'd nailed him down to the pajamas.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Think you know me so well, eh? What color are my nightclothes? Hmmmm?"

"Maroon." He raised his brows at that.

"I've always suspected you were witch. How could you possibly know that?"

"Because it's your favorite pair _on me_ ," was her smug reply, smiling at his answering laughter.

"Think you've one up on me, do you, Mrs. Steele?" Shifting to lay down on the bed, she curled up on her side, wrapped around his pillow.

"You know I do," she smiled.

"My navy top—"

"Uh-uh. I told you that. It doesn't count," she admonished.

"Hair down—"

"My hair is always down when I go to bed. It's a given." Indeed it was. It seemed he was forever removing a piece of hair out of his mouth or swiping the lot of it out of his face. And he loved every moment of it.

"As I'm not there to keep your feet warm, a pair of those hideous socks that reach your knees. You know the ones, with the colored rings about the top." She laughed as she wiggled her toes, kept warm by a pair of exactly the socks he was describing.

"Go on," she encouraged.

"You were sitting against the headboard when first we began to speak, but by now you're lying on your side, wrapped around my pillow, facing my side of the bed, I imagine." She laughed quietly.

"You're very good at this," she conceded.

"I ought to be. I've been studying you for years. You're a worthy subject." Closing her eyes, she smiled.

"'Sometimes I know exactly what you're going to say, most of the time,'" she told him fondly.

" _To Have or Have Not,_ Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Warner Bros., 1945," he recited automatically. "Are you saying I'm predictable, Mrs. Steele?"

"Only some of the time, on most of the days, Mr. Steele. Tell me about your yesterday," she requested.

"Mmmm. After I regretfully parted way with my bride at the airport, I dropped round the market to lay in a few more supplies. On my way to Hardwick, I posted a package to you—" A smile lifted her lips.

"You did?" she asked, inordinately pleased.

"Just a little something I think you'll be needing. You should have it by Monday, Tuesday at the latest. When I—"

"What did you send me?" she interrupted. _Predictable as the rain,_ he smiled to himself.

"Just a little something I think you'll be needing," he repeated. You'll not be getting more than that from me, love," he informed her, laughing at her grunt of dissatisfaction with his answer. "Shall I go on?"

"Mmmm," she hummed, snuggling more deeply into her pillow then tightening her arms around his and inhaling deeply his scent while enjoying the tranquilizing tenor of his voice.

"When I arrived at Hardwick, Thomas kicked the staff out of the kitchen so together we could tackle the veal dish you were so fond of in North Carolina. After, we whipped up a batch of the white chocolate cream cheese mousse for which he'd wanted to share the recipe with me. Even I must admit it's spectacular. Decadently rich, you'll absolutely—" With a quiet chuckle he stopped the recitation of his 'yesterday.' "Laura?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"Sleep well, mo chuisle. We'll speak tomorrow. Hang up the phone now, love."

"Alright," she agreed distantly.

Turning to lay on his back in their bed in London, he was left laughing, for she'd hung up the phone without ever saying goodbye.

* * *

Sunday morning, Laura dragged herself out of bed at seven, then tossing on a pair of khakis, a short-sleeved polo and a pair of flats, she pulled her hair back into a simple ponytail. Forgoing makeup, she was in the Porsche by twenty after the hour. Despite stopping for coffee, she pulled up in front of Frances and Donald's at two minutes before eight. The bug seemed to be of the twenty-four hour variety for the girls were awake and tentatively eating some toast at the breakfast table when she arrived. Danny, however? He'd come down with the bug overnight. She kept their girls occupied throughout the morning, braiding their hair, playing go fish, and plying them with Jello, made the prior night by Donald, and 7-Up.

Only after Donald assured her a half dozen times he was back on top of things, did she depart. A quick stop at the grocery store on the way home, and by two-thirty, she was standing at the kitchen counter peeling open a carton of yogurt. She frowned after spooning the first bite in her mouth, then shriveled her nose at the second. Dropping the carton into the trash, she reached into the refrigerator for a second time and snatched out a small carton of chocolate pudding. Opening it and taking a spoonful, she rolled her eyes.

"Perfect," she purred, before wolfing it down while giving some consideration to going for a run or sitting down at the piano. Ultimately, she found herself book in hand, portable phone at her side and glass of ice water sitting on the ground, stretched out in the hammock on the terrace, enjoying the mild March afternoon.

The trill of the phone ringing startled her from sleep. Feeling around on the hammock she finally located it and, never opening her eyes, hit the button to answer it.

"'Lo," she mumbled into the receiver.

"You sound much as you did when last we spoke," a bemused tenor with just a bit of Irish brogue said into her ear. Her lips lifted in a smile as she carefully turned to lay on her back.

"I fell asleep on you last night, didn't I?" she asked, absurdly pleased by the surprise phone call.

"That you did," he confirmed with a chuckle, "Then to add insult to injury, hung up on me with nary a goodbye said."

"I didn't!" she exclaimed, laughing.

"I quite assure you, you did," he chuckled. "Paint me a picture, Laura."

"Paint you a picture?"

"Of you, right now. What are you wearing? Hair up or down? Where are you?" he asked, as he stretched out on his back and covered his eyes with an arm.

"Ummmm, khaki's, light pink polo, brown belt, no shoes. Hair up in a ponytail. In our hammock."

"Lovely," he hummed, envisioning her. "Another Sunday lost," he commented with no little regret.

"We can spend all next Sunday afternoon in the hammock, if you'd like." He sighed deeply.

"There's little I'd like more, but I'd wager a near impossibility," he lamented. "I haven't stocked the cupboards in weeks, and have cringed many a time these past two days imagining you cracking your teeth trying to eat stale croutons." The comment earned a swipe of her tongue at the inside of her cheeks and another wide smile as she shook her head.

"There's a big difference between not enjoying going to the grocery store and being incapable of it, Mr. Steele," she told him with mock irritation. "As a matter of fact, I went today."

"Mmmm," he hummed. "Did you purchase anything beyond yogurt, a couple of pieces of fruit and those little chocolate pudding cups you used to hide behind a five-year-old box of pancake mix in the loft?" Wrinkling her nose, she squirmed in the hammock. He chuckled quietly, able to see her doing just that in his mind. "As I said, a run to the market will be required."

"What time is it?" she asked, in attempt to change the subject. Peeking out beneath his arm, he glanced at the alarm clock.

"A little after one," he supplied.

"Why are you still awake?" she inquired, her brows rising. "I'm going to be calling you in only a few hours."

"I don't sleep worth a damn without you near," he told her, frustration peppering his voice, "especially…" he trailed off, unsure if he was willing to traipse into potentially volatile ground.

"Especially what?" As his silence drew out, she grew frustrated as well. This was the most difficult part about the miles between them. She'd known it would be. She just hadn't expected it this soon. Their old habit of shutting down, retreating, hiding, too easily done with distance between them. She concentrated hard on softening her voice, trying to draw him out. "What's going on in that head of yours, Remington?"

"Damn it, Laura. I'm worried," he exploded, launching himself out of the bed to pace. "You return to work in the morning. DesCoines' insane daughter is still prowling about out there… _somewhere_. We've no idea when she's going to show again. For Christ's sake, we don't even know who she is! Who knows where the bloody hell Anna is, but my every instinct tells me she's plans in mind for us otherwise why would Roselli have bothered? When you're out and about, there's no one watching your back. And we both know, if there's a case, if there's a clue, if there's a suspect to pursue, you won't wait, let it rest, until I get back." By the time he'd finished, her fingers had found her brow.

"That's a lot going on in there." The words left her mouth without conscious thought and she grimaced at how dismissive they'd sounded, even to her own ears.

"Laura," he choked out in a strangled voice, while rubbing an anxious hand across his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she breathed, then took a second to gather her thoughts. "The summer you left," she began, then blew out a harsh breath. It had been nearly two years since the night she'd arrived at his apartment to find him gone, but the memory of that night, how she'd felt, was still like a physical blow. "The summer you left," she tried again, "Not knowing if you were safe, if you were hurt, if you were in trouble? I understand all too well what you're feeling right now. But you need to give me at least _some_ credit. I didn't take on cases then that put me at risk without my partner to watch my back and I won't now." Across the Atlantic, Remington sat down heavily on the edge of the bed and dropped his head into a hand supported by an elbow to knee.

"Minor and Anna?" She held up a hand and shook her head.

"Tomorrow morning, I'll see what progress Mildred's made on getting DesCoines' visitor log. If she doesn't have it, I'll try another avenue. I'll also call Meyerson and will ask if he can touch base with his contact at the INS and see what he can find out about Anna." She blew out a soft puff of air. "I promised to stay safe. It's a promise I intend to keep." Stretching back on the bed again, he slung his arm over his eyes and nodded. "You need to get some sleep, Remington."

"If only it were so easy," he mumbled.

"Turn off the light. Let me know when you have," she instructed, her mind whirring with how to relax him from thousands of miles away rendering touch, presence not an option. What she did have at hand, however, was his very vivid imagination. Doing as bid, he rolled to his side and turned off the light.

"It's off," he informed her, wondering what she was about.

"Lose the shirt, Mr. Steele." Dropping his arm and raising his brows, he gave a short laugh.

"Laura…"

"Lose the shirt. We're going to take a Sunday afternoon nap together," she informed him. Feeling more than a bit silly, he did as she asked, and tossed the shirt to the end of the bed before pulling up sheet and comforter.

"Done."

"Alright. Close your eyes. You and I are lying in our hammock. My head's laying on your shoulder, my hand on your side, one of my legs over yours. It's a mild, day. High seventies, a gentle breeze. A neighbor cut his grass today, you can smell it in the air. The sun is lowering on the horizon, letting it shine right on us. Can you picture it?"

"Mmmm," he hummed. She'd described one of many such afternoons they'd shared together since moving into their Holmby Hills home.

"What would we be doing if you were here?" He laughed warmly at the inquiry.

"Ah, love, I assure you making me think about _that_ is not the way to encourage sleep." She laughed huskily while rolling her eyes.

"Talking. We'd be talking," she corrected. "Tell me about your day." He grinned on the other side of the line.

"Wouldn't that also run contrary to your goals? Hmm?" He had her there, she had to admit.

"Alright. I'll tell you about my day. When I got up this morning, I went back over to Frances and Donald's. Mindy and Laurie Beth were feeling better, but still timid about putting anything on their stomachs. Danny came down with the bug overnight, so…" she filled him in on the entirety of her day. At first he asked a question here or there, then eventually fell completely silent. "Remington?"

"Hmmmm," he hummed in answer.

"Hang up the phone, sweetheart."

"'Night, Mrs. Steele."

"Good night, Mr. Steele."

With a smile on her face, she went inside to change into running clothes.

* * *

"Steele, here," Remington's surprisingly awake voice came over the line.

"You're up," Laura replied, clearly surprised. He scrubbed at his head with a hand.

"Didn't we have this same conversation yesterday?" he bantered.

"Five years of you not wanting to climb from bed before ten warrants my surprise," she needled.

"Extraordinary circumstances, such as my wife being a continent away, inspire change, temporary although it may be," he retorted. "You, however, must not be as affected as I, for you remain steadfast to your own shortcoming."

"Oh, and what shortcoming is that?"

"You're late," he pronounced with laughter in his voice. "By half an hour, might I add."

"Late by design. I wanted to give you a little more time to sleep. I realized something while I was running tonight, Mr. Steele." He wasn't sure if he should be alarmed by the statement or not.

"Oh? And what was that?" he asked cautiously.

"We never read Daniel's letter." Of this he was well aware. It had occurred to him they might read it before she left, but had shoved the thought aside. He needed more time to digest how he felt about Daniel's duplicity, time he could scarce afford while getting to know his father and worrying about Laura left to her own devices thousands of miles away.

"Mmm, no, we never did. We'll do it together when I come home."

"Alright," she nodded her agreement. "Tell me about your yesterday."

"First, paint me a picture," he requested.

"I don't know how much of a picture I can paint. I'm in bed, wearing your royal blue pajama top, hair down." She wasn't about to admit she had his pillow clutched in her arms, pressed to her front.

"Lying?"

"On my side, facing your side of the bed." He closed his eyes, seeing her as clearly as if she were there with him now.

"Delightful," he hummed. "Thomas and I spent the day at Derbyshire – Which reminds me. Thomas knows a breeder in Argentina who, he assures me, breeds superior Criollo ponies. The finest of horse for polo—"

"No," was her unequivocal answer before he could spin his spiel.

"Think of the benefits of owning my own—" She lifted her eyes heavenward.

"Out of the question." His lips lifted in a bemused smile. She couldn't very well make him return a gift from his father, now could she?

"Now, Laura—"

"Remington," she interrupted again, "Setting aside the ridiculous price tag I'm sure is on the head of whatever horse you have in mind, _after_ you own the horse there are unending costs: stabling, grooming, feed, vet bills, not to mention a responsibility to spend time with the animal. Now, we can continue discussing this, in which case I'll hang up and go to bed, or we can move on." The statement rankled, but given a horse would be delivered to their doorstep on the heels of his return it occurred to him it would not be the wisest of decisions to relay his offense.

"Derbyshire is..." he searched for the word, "… impressive might be an understatement. Two dozen horses housed right now along with Thomas's own hunting mounts, with space for another two dozen. Four paddocks, three training arenas, a state of the art breeding facility. Thomas had a couple of the hunters saddled up so we might tour the outer grounds together. Near on a thousand acres of woodlands, a lake, two smaller ponds. A veritable cornucopia of game for those inclined to hunt, which I can honestly say I've never taken a liking to." Laura's deep yawn rolled across the line, lifting a smile to his lips.

"And you and Thomas? How are you getting along?" While she knew Remington would get caught up in all the trappings, largely due to disbelief that this was his birthright, her concern lay with father and son building something real and enduring.

"He's a good man, love," he admitted quietly. "A bid staid, as you know, but I've come to realize although he's lived his life in proverbial luxury, that had he it to do all over again, he'd gladly give the lot of it up if it meant Aislin living…" he stalled and cleared his throat, "… watching me grow up. 'The damnable fears of youth,' he's termed it more than once."

"You seem to have some regrets of your own," she observed. He scratched at his chin as he considered that thought.

"Ah, Laura," he sighed, while shaking his head in the negative. "Had you asked me that question a decade ago, I may well have provided a long list of just such regrets. Now? Had things been different, I'd never have known Daniel, Marcos, Elena and the family. And above all? I'd have never found you. So, no, I don't think I'll be saying I've any regrets. A wish or two, perhaps, would be a more apt description."

"And what would those be?"

"Aislin, to start. I was with her for several months. I wish I could remember anything about her, if only a mere sensation, but I don't." Her lips tightened with her own regrets for him.

"I can understand that." She yawned again. "What do you have planned for today, love?" He grinned at her drowsiness-induced reference to himself with the endearment he used for her.

"We meet with the solicitor this morning to address the details on the transference of the entailments, and after? Two days dedicated to me becoming familiar with the workings of Agri-Britain. Thomas understands I'll not have a part of running the business, but it seems by virtue of my existence alone, I'm a voting member of the board." He smiled a crooked smile as he recalled the thought that had come to him earlier that day. "Imagine I'll find myself in a silo being buried by grain again?" Silence greeted the question. "Laura?...Lau-ra," he drew out her name the second time, speaking much louder.

"Ummm, yes, I hope so," she mumbled. He chuckled warmly at the thought of the fun he'd have the next day.

"Say goodnight, Mrs. Steele," he directed.

"Goodnight, Mr. Steele," she dutifully answered before hanging up the phone.

In London, Remington hung up the phone and climbed from bed to shower and prepare for the day that awaited.


	3. Chapter 3: No Good Deed

Chapter 3: No Good Deed

Laura woke to the unsettling sensation of feeling vaguely seasick. Sitting up, she threaded fingers through hair, and willed back the feeling. _I can't be getting sick. I_ _ **never**_ _get sick. I_ _ **won't**_ _get sick_. Thirty minutes spent under the spray of the shower didn't chase the feeling away, much to her annoyance. She nursed a cup of tea on the drive to Tarzana, through a noisy stint at carpool, then on the drive back to LA. Despite the added responsibility of the carpool, she made it to the office by eight-fifteen. _Not bad,_ she commended herself.

The elevator ride only enhanced her queasiness and when it settled to a stop on the eleventh floor, she had to lean her back against the wall of the elevator, and command the nausea back. Once her stomach reasonably settled did she step off while taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. Only for her feet to come to a grinding halt, when she turned the corner and stepped into the hall leading to their offices, where a throng of reporters replete with video and still cameras was waiting.

"Wonderful," she hissed to herself. "Which of us has been found 'dead' where this time?" Pulling her fedora low over her brow and dropping her head, she strode with purpose down the hall and plowed through the milling mob over their protests. When a couple of reporters made to follow her, Bernice strode across the office shoving a finger in their faces.

"Out. If I have to say it again, instead of calling security, it'll be the LAPD!" Bernice warned, before yanking the door shut behind her while the reporters returned to their posts in the hall.

"What is going on?!" Laura demanded to know, her voice an octave higher than normal.

"Well, good morning to you to," Bernice returned with a grin, while crossing the office to pick up the paper from the desk. "I assume you haven't seen this morning's paper?"

"A glance before I left the house this morning. But I don't see what Gorbachev's tentative agreement to remove mid-range missiles from Europe, a bomber on the loose, of if Reagan should remove Gate's nomination for CIA director has to do with the Agency," she answered, gesticulating throughout. Bernice rolled her eyes at her friend and employer.

"Try a different section of the paper," Bernice told her while handing her the LA Times. Frowning, Laura took the paper and looked at the article in front of her. 'Another Feather in Steele's Cap. Or Is That Crown on His Head?' the headline on the front page of the society section screamed.

"Oh, god," Laura mumbled, taking a couple of steps backwards to lean her bottom against the edge of the desk while skimming the article. "Where's Mildred?" she finally asked, when she'd digested the full scope of what was before her.

"Downstairs, lighting a fire under security to get those guys," she hooked a finger towards the door, "out of here. Tell me it's not true. _Skeezik's_ isn't _really_ royalty." Both women looked up, prepared to shoo out any reporter that dared breech the threshold when the door swung open.

"Murphy?!" they asked in unison.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Laura asked, voice pitching high again.

"Sher's Mom had knee surgery on Friday, so she took two weeks off from the University to help her Pops out. We're on the slow side right now, nothing Steven can't handle on his own, so I tagged along. It's almost time to renew my California license, so I was hoping you might have something where I can get a few hours under my belt…" he shrugged, "Then when I saw this, this morning…" he trailed off, holding up the paper in his hand, making Laura grimace.

"Once Mildred gets back, I'll fill all of you in at – Oh, god," she gasped, running for Remington' office as Bernice and Murphy stared after her.

"Keep them out," Bernice told Murphy, pointing towards the door. "I'll check on Laura."

Bernice didn't need to guess where Laura had gone, given the sounds coming out of the bathroom. She waited until the sounds quieted, then tapped on the door before opening it and going in. Wetting a wash cloth with cool water, then wringing it out, she handed to Laura, where she'd sat down on the floor.

"Frances' kids," she managed to get past her sore throat. "Stomach virus."

"Kids will get you every time," Bernice nodded knowingly. "I think I have some Pepto in my purse. Rinse your mouth out. _Don't drink any water,_ it will only make it worse. I'll get you some tea." Laura closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall.

Murphy eyed her when she walked out of Remington's office.

"Stomach bug. Caught it from her sister's kids," Bernice volunteered.

"They'll do it to you every time," he commiserated. "Can I get her anything?"

"Yeah. Can you go buy her either a ginger ale or 7-Up from the machine down the hall? I'll get the tea started once your back."

"Sure," he agreed easily.

"And don't let the vultures in!" she called at his back.

There was no need for concern. As Bernice was digging through her purse, Mildred arrived with the cavalry. While security offered the reporters a personal escort from the building, Mildred swung through the front door.

"Mrs. Steele in yet?" she wanted to know.

"In _his_ bathroom, sick as a dog. Frances's kids. Stomach bug," Bernice offered in summary, as she stood with Pepto in hand.

"I'll get some tea going for her," Mildred offered, already walking towards the breakroom while Bernice returned to the bathroom. There she found Laura patching up her makeup at the sink.

"Thanks," Laura told her, taking the Pepto from her hand. "The contractors will be here at nine. What's first on my schedule for the day?"

"New client at nine-thirty. A defense attorney. Thinks someone is trying to knock him off. LAPD thinks he's being paranoid," Bernice summarized.

Laura let out a hard breath. Just the type of case she'd promised Remington she wouldn't take while he wasn't here to back her up.

"After that?"

"Interviews at ten, ten-thirty and eleven. Another new client at eleven-thirty, this one wanting you to locate a something stolen from the safe in his home. Twelve-thirty and one, two more interviews. Then you're free to review financials before you meet with the accountant at four." Laura pressed her fingers against her forehead while nodding.

"Alright. Move the meeting with the accountant to next Monday after Mr. Steele's back. I'll need time this afternoon to drop by and see Monroe and go over the security installations. I'll need at least a two-and-a-half if not three hour period blocked out tomorrow morning. I have to inspect the Fournier stores' progress and get back to Mr. Steele with any issues I find. Also, clear out two-thirty to three every day this week. It will be the best time for me to confer with him on anything." She blew out a slow breath and covered her mouth as another round of nausea swept over her. Closing her eyes, she willed it back.

"Maybe you should take the day…" Bernice suggested.

"Can't. We've already been away too much. I'll be fine. The kids weren't down even a day." Breathing in deep, she straightened her shoulders and examined herself critically in the mirror. With a brisk nod of approval, she walked out of the bathroom. "Have Mildred and Murph come into Mr. Steele's office. We'll leave the door open in case anyone comes in. I'd rather give explanations for the… article," she wrinkled her nose, "only once."

"I bet," Bernice laughed, turning to leave the office.

"And Bernice?" Laura called after her. "Put all the phone lines on hold. I have a feeling our friends this morning won't be giving up so easily."

"Here you go, Mrs. Steele," Mildred announced, coming into the office bearing hot tea in Laura's favorite mug, before Bernice could make into the reception area.

"Thanks, Mildred," she said with warm sincerity. "I'm sorry for the way you found out. Mr. Steele and I wanted to fill you in, together, when he got home. We were assured precisely this would not happen," she told her with no little regret.

"Well, I won't deny it hurt. After all we've been through together, everything that happened with the Boss and his fath-," she cut the word off, "with Chalmers in Ireland…" Pausing, she looked at Laura with worry marring her face. "I guess I thought with all the changes around here, that had changed to."

"Mildred!" Laura protested, as guilt clawed at her. "That's not going to change because you've moved to senior investigator, or because we add people to the staff. You know what you mean to Mr. Steele. To me. The three of us? You, me and Mr. Steele? We're family!" A wide smile broke out across Mildred's face.

"Are you ready for us?" Murphy asked, sticking his head into the office. She waved both into the office, then nursed the tea Mildred had brought her while everyone got comfortable.

"It's no secret that for the last month, Mr. Steele and I have been trying to find out the reason Roselli came after us in the first place. Our meeting with Inspector Lombard seemed without incident until Mr. Steele and I were… invited… by Scotland Yard's finest, to accompany them to meet Lombard at an unknown location. It was at that meeting we found the Earl of Claridge was very much alive. Roselli, who is adopted, believed the Earl was _his_ father. After the Earl turned him away, Roselli vowed he'd figure out who the Earl's son was and would eliminate them all, one-by-one: The Earl, his wife and son. When clues to Mr. Steele's past led him to the Earl in September of '85—"

"He denied he was the Boss's father! Said his eyes were the wrong color!" Mildred interrupted. Laura nodded and shrugged her shoulders.

"He lied. By then, Roselli had already made one attempt on his life, and had shortly before Mr. Steele appeared, threatened them all –"

"Then why didn't he warn the Boss about Tarzan before he swooped in?" Mildred interrupted again, as Laura prayed for a bit of patience. Pausing to collect herself, she took another drink of her tea.

"The Earl knew Roselli as Sean Hadley, and he barely resembled the man we knew. Can we save any more questions until the end?" she requested. "We don't have long before the contractor arrives." Mildred looked contrite.

"Sorry. My lips are sealed from here forward," she promised, feigning zip her mouth shut and tossing away the key.

"Daniel's meeting with the Earl took place directly before Rem—Mr. Steele's. He felt compelled to tell the Earl not to disrupt Mr. Steele's life as it now was. It made the Earl reconsider his stance on claiming he was Mr. Steele's father, and instead turned him away to keep him safe. Or so he thought. After a second attempt was made on the Earl's life, the decision was made to allow people to believe it had been successful. When the Earl was well enough, he conspired with Daniel to allow Mr. Steele believe he was his father, while at the same time guaranteeing Mr. Steele would receive at least part of what was his by birth: the townhome in London bequeathed to Mr. Steele by Daniel, and Ashford Castle, bequeathed to him by the Earl." Laura stopped to take another drink and battle back another round of nausea. "When we went to Lombard, we asked for records on an undercover MI5 agent that had been killed in front of Mr. Steele when he was forced to pose as an assassin. Given Roselli's link to this agent, he had Roselli's file pulled as well, showed the Earl his picture and confirmed Hadley and Roselli were one and the same. Since Roselli no longer poses a threat, the Earl revealed the truth of his relationship to Mr. Steele. Last Monday, DNA paternity tests confirmed they are, in fact, father and son." Finished, she sat back in her chair clutching her cup of tea. The group remained silent as they digested the information, Murphy being the first to break the silence.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't the paper say Steele is the Earl of Claridge?" he sought to clarify.

"He _is,_ " she answered. _"_ Thomas, formerly the Earl, should have been conferred with the title of Marquess Westmoreland when his father passed '85. He allowed the title to lay dormant, refusing to accept it until he found his son and his son could take on his rightful title as well. Once the DNA tests confirmed Mr. Steele was his son, as he believed, he accepted the title of Marquess and Remington, as his first born son, inherited his next highest title, Earl of Claridge. I don't even begin to pretend to understand it all, to be honest. But from what I do. Thomas James Fitzgerald III, is now the Marquess Westmoreland, Earl of Mayo and Viscount Stafford. By virtue of their marriage, Catherine is titled the Marchioness Westmoreland. By virtue of _my_ marriage to Mr. Steele, I become Countess of Claridge. Don't even asks me what happens if we ever have children. You'll have to ask Mr. Steele about that."

"Mr. Steele is still Mr. Steele then?" Mildred inquired. "Not whatever name he was given at birth?"

"He has chosen to keep the name he's used the last five years. It's who he sees himself as, not to mention the name we have started carving out a life with."

"Laura, I swear to you, if we have to start referring to him as 'your highness', I'm outta here," Bernice warned. Laura laughed, then regretted it when her stomach lurched.

"Technically, he would be addressed by 'My Lord' or 'Your Lordship'," she joked, her raised brows having to suffice for a laugh.

"Laura…" Bernice warned again.

"Relax. Nothing is going to change here at the Agency or even in the States. We'd _thought_ we'd taken steps to keep the two lives separate, but clearly that didn't work out."

"So the Boss is _really_ in line to the throne of England?" Mildred asked, clearly in awe.

"Tenth in line of succession," she confirmed with a nod. "God help us all if that were to happen," she muttered under her breath. Murphy snorted a laugh having heard.

"Steele's head is the size of the Goodyear blimp, huh?" Murphy grinned. Laura pursed her lips in thought.

"Honestly, no. Overwhelmed. Ready to turn it all down if it interfered with our lives here. But, no, surprisingly enough." The realization made her feel maybe more secure than she'd ever been in choosing him, this life. "Alright, since it seems we're finished with this, I want to make myself clear on this: under no circumstances is Mr. Steele to be informed I have this stomach virus. He'll either nag me to the point I'll have to kill him, or he'll be on the next plane back to drive me _crazy_. Understood, Mildred, Bernice?" Both women nodded their understanding. "Great," she said standing. "Mildred, this afternoon I'd like to sit down with you to go over where we stand on those visitor logs, plus to catch up with what you've been working on this last week." Without another word, she walked gracefully to the bathroom and closed the door. Murphy, Mildred and Bernice cringed as one when they heard her getting sick again. Mildred and Bernice scattered to return to their business, while Murphy retrieved the ginger ale he'd purchased before the meeting, then sat back down to wait her out.

"Here you go, partner," he stood and pressed the cool can into Laura's hand when she emerged from the bathroom. "The tea doesn't seem to be doing the trick, maybe this will."

"Thanks, Murph," she told him appreciatively, then sat down in Remington's chair and rested her face in hands supported by elbows to desk. "This was the last thing I needed today," she bemoaned, then looked up at him through her fingers. "Were you serious? Are you really looking to put in a few hours?"

"Do I ever say anything I don't mean?" he asked with a smile.

"No, no you don't." She weighed the pros and cons in her head. On one hand, taking him up on the offer would lighten her load and allow her to take on cases which would require a partner for safety. On the other hand, there was Remington and his reaction to the news. _Well, he wanted someone watching my back, didn't he?_ she posed the question to herself. Ultimately, it was self-preservation which made the decision for her. "You're on, partner." Murphy's smile was of little comfort, as she glanced at her watch. Not quite five in the afternoon. Odds were Remington was still with Thomas.

"So, what do we have?" Murphy asked.

"Me? Meeting with the contractors right now," she commented dryly as she watched the project manager walk through the Agency doors through the still open office door. "At nine-thirty, new client. Believes someone is trying to kill him and the LAPD isn't taking it seriously. If you could get with Bernice," she told him as she stood and smoothed her skirt while ignoring her tilting stomach, "she'll fill you in on the rest of the day." She sighed. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

Greeting the project manager, she only prayed she could make it through the day.

* * *

At one-forty-five, Laura closed the door to Remington's office and lay her head down on his desk. She'd made it through. Somehow, she'd made it through. Five interviews of apprentice hopefuls, two client meetings, one walk-in client and through willpower alone, she'd managed not to bolt for the bathroom during a one of them. Not that she hadn't between appointments, but she still considered it a personal victory that she'd held out during. Now, head pounding in part due to lack of caffeine, in part due to the considerable noise coming from the other side of the wall, all she wanted was sleep. She understood, now, how Mindy and Laurie Beth had slept the day away once the bug had hit. Whatever this was, zapped every ounce of energy from your body.

The morning had been successful, by her standards. Murphy had sat in on the interviews and she'd used him as a sounding board afterwards. Quickly five potential interns were narrowed to two for now: Brandon Graham, the young man Monroe had sent to them and Zachary Burton. The two young men couldn't be any more different. Graham, black, high school graduate, soft spoken, who had grown up in East Compton and wanted a better life, but refused to go the route of drug dealing and gangs. Burton, white, blonde, surfer-boy written all over him, who would be graduating from UCLA in three months with a degree in criminal justice. Both, however, had impressed with their drive and the ease with which they'd answered questions quickly and thoroughly, identifying an ability to think on their feet.

Laura had decided to take on two of the cases, and turn down a third. Gone was George Adams, as he was less than candid about what, precisely, had been taken from his safe. She'd accepted the walk-in case. Wayne Parsons, thirty-nine from Omaha, Nebraska. His sixteen-year-old son, Dylan, had run away eight days ago, unhappy at home after the surprisingly amicable divorce between his parents, then the devastating breakup with the girl he'd been dating since they were thirteen. The girl had received a phone call from Dylan two day prior, the caller ID in her parents' home identifying the call as coming from a payphone in the Hollywood Boulevard area. The LAPD were keeping an eye out, but given thousands of kids flocked to California cities near the beach each year, they wouldn't be assigning an officer to the case.

She'd also decided to take on the case of Andy Morton, a defense attorney who hung his shingle in the seedier side of town and represented criminals with no apology. If not for the series of incidents he'd brought them… cut brake lines; a suddenly loose bannister on a stairwell he was known to climb each day to get to his office, which, incidentally had resulted in a broken leg; a freak explosion with his barbeque grill; among others… and what appeared to be genuine fear for his life, she'd have turned him away. But, as it was, he'd returned a half-hour ago to sit down with Murphy and work through the list of people who might want to see him harmed.

Lifting her head, she stared at the package in front of her: the one Remington had sent from London. Her curiosity finally getting the better of her, she pulled it towards herself, then fingered his elegant script. She couldn't help but note, if he were here right now, he'd have soothed away both her headache and the aches and pains now racking her body with those talented fingers of his. She longed to be spooned into his embrace, his warmth and presence providing comfort. _Enough, Holt!_ she chastised herself. _If a six year old and twelve year old can get through this without their mother, a grown woman… an independent, self-reliant woman… certainly can!_

Resolved, she tore off the kraft paper which was wrapped around the box and tossed it into the trash. Removing the tape on either side of the sturdy box she lifted the lid. On top of the tissue paper wrapped item was a note from Remington.

 _I have listened and dreamed while the moon has glistened and a million stars have gleamed. Waiting…_

 _Dr. Doolittle, Rex Harrison, Samantha Eggar, Twentieth Century Fox, 1967._

 _Horrible movie, wonderful thought._

 _I'll be waiting for you in your dreams_ , mo chéadsearc. Make it a good one.

 _-R_

Laura laughed softly while shaking her head, once again appreciating the man's romantic nature. Opening the tissue paper, she found another note.

 _No one wears it as well as you, but I'd rather you were wearing_ _me._

 _-R_

Laughing again, she lifted the shirt he'd worn with his tux the night of the ball from the box. Holding the shirt up to her face, she inhaled deeply, closing her eyes as his rich, warm smell wrapped around her senses. It was exactly what she needed, exactly when she needed it. Reaching for the phone, she dialed the already memorized number.

"Steele, here."

"Good evening, Mr. Steele," she greeted, a smile in her voice.

"Ah, Mrs. Steele! Didn't think I'd hear from you until morning, given first day back and all." His pleasure at the unexpected call was clear.

"I suppose given the package in front of me, I could at least spare you a _minute_ or two," she answered lightly. Leaning back in his chair and propping her feet on his desk, she scrunched her eyes and swallowed hard when her stomach lurched at the sudden movement. He chuckled quietly in her ear.

"Had I known a package was the way to guarantee a scant amount of your time before I retire, I would have made it a point to send you one daily." When she remained silent, he sat down on the edge of the bed, using the towel around his neck to remove the shaving cream still coating a cheek. "What's on your mind, Laura?"

"You know me too well." She sighed deeply. "It's just been a long day, and it's not nearly over with," she told him.

"Tell me."

"It's nothing in particular. Members of our illustrious press were here when I arrived this morning. Our little secret, Mr. Steele, is no longer a secret… At least not to anyone who reads the society pages." He pulled on the lobe of an ear uncomfortably.

"I assure you, I've no—"

"I didn't think you did," she cut in before the claim of innocence could be made. "The contractors started this morning, according to plan, and are demoing the adjoining suite as a we speak. I interviewed five potential future investigators, scheduled two for interviews with us both when you return and accepted two new cases, one of which I'll start tonight." She paused, while rubbing at her right temple, trying to relieve her pounding head. "Remington, I need to discuss something with you." The reluctance with which the words were said sent chills skittering down his back.

"Oh, and what might that be?"

"Sherry and Murphy are in town to help out after her mother's knee surgery. Murph's going to renew his California license while here. He'd like to clock in some investigative hours—"

"Say no more. It's the ideal solution. There's no one I'd trust more to watch your back." Hate every minute of it, yes, but Murphy would no more allow harm to come to Laura than he himself would. His easy acquiescence surprised her.

"That's it. No argument? No 'putting your foot down'?" she demanded to know, earning a soft laugh.

"Do I like the idea of anyone but myself partnering with you? Can't say that I do. But since I can't be there, I damned well know Michael's will keep you safe," he shrugged. "So, what else is on the agenda for the day?"

"I'm going to meet with Monroe shortly, see where we stand on the Fournier stores, then, this evening, Murph and I will hit the streets looking for the missing kid." _Ah, one of the cases._

"Missing kid?" he asked, seeking more information.

"Sixteen-year-old boy from Nebraska. Last known whereabouts, somewhere off Hollywood Boulevard," she summarized.

"Start with Enzo at the mission," he suggested. "He spent a fair bit of time on those streets. Would likely know where a kid like that might seek shelter."

"Alright," she agreed.

"I'm sure I don't need to tell you to leave your rings at home. They'll draw the attention of the wrong sort." She neither lectured him for the mere thought she'd need reminding nor made a comment. "How long have you had the headache, love?" The question startled her.

"How did you know?"

"I can hear it in your voice. Now, how long?"

"Since late morning," she sighed, dropping her legs and sitting back up. Wrong move. The nausea rolled over her in a ferocious wave. "I have to go. I'll call you tonight when I get home. Bye." Hanging up the phone, she raced for the bathroom, making it just in the nick of time.

In London, sitting on the edge of their bed, Remington stared at the droning receiver in his hands, wondering what in the blazes that had been about.

(TBC)


	4. Chapter 4: On the Case

**A/N: Getting back to Saturday uploads on the Canon Series, and posting any of the AU's midweek. Enjoy!**

* * *

Chapter 4: On the Case

"It seems we have five firm suspects," Murphy filled Laura in as they drove towards the Lost and Found mission that evening. "Nicholas Romano, former client, displeased with Morton's services. Did a two-year stint for armed robbery. Claims he was innocent and promised to make Morton pay for not getting him off. Marianne Madison, a woman scammed by one of Morton's clients, who he _did_ get off. Her family lost a small fortune. Promised to see him destitute. Jim Carstairs whose wife is doing time, blames Morton. Harry Hall. Husband of Morton's former secretary and lover. Her husband took exception to the latter. Ed Carlsen. His wife saw him as in the way of what she wanted: another man. Tried to kill him. Morton got her off. Carlsen swore he'd see him as dead as his wife attempted to make him."

"Popular guy," Laura hummed.

"You know the old saying, 'when you lie down with dogs…'," he joked. She smiled at him over her cup of broth. It had been a couple of hours since her last round of making acquaintance with the ivory porcelain, so she dared to risk something a little more substantial than tea or ginger ale. Her head was still pounding and outside of some sleep, she didn't think that would resolve itself.

"Do we have locations on the suspects?" Murphy nodded.

"Morton brought the last knowns when he came back in this afternoon. Thought we'd start with Romano and Carlsen tomorrow morning."

"It'll have to wait until I inspect the progress of the installations at two of Fournier's stores. I don't expect to be in the office later than ten." As the car came to a halt in the alleyway next to the mission, Laura released her seat belt.

"You sure you don't want me to come in with you? This isn't exactly Beverly Hills," he noted, eyeing a group of bums gathered around a fire burning in an old oil barrel.

"I'll be fine. They're old friends," she nodded towards the building itself. "I don't want you being there to prevent them from being as… helpful… as they would if I came alone." _Or with Remington,_ she thought to herself.

"Ten minutes, partner, and I'm coming in," he forewarned. Opening the car door, she turned and lay a hand on his forearm.

"I'll be fine," she assured him then climbed from the car and disappeared inside.

* * *

"Mrs. Steele," greeted an older man when she entered. "Or should I calling ya Lady Steele?" Laura didn't even bother to hide her eye roll.

"We're the same people we were a week ago, Max. It's still Laura." There had never been any pretenses at the missionary, not for she or Remington, and she wasn't interested in them now. "I need to talk to Enzo. Mr. Steele sent me."

"Storeroom, preparing the order," he directed. With a gracious nod, she passed through the dining room then ducked into the kitchen where she found Enzo exactly where Max had sent her.

"Enzo?" The dark skinned, dark eyed, dark haired former drug addict twenty-something turned around, suspicion tensing his posture until he recognized Steele's wife.

"Mrs. Steele," he smiled. "What brings ya here?" Pulling a photograph from her rear pocket, she handed it to him.

"He does. Sixteen-year-old runaway from Nebraska. Made a call home from Hollywood Boulevard a couple of days ago. His parents are sick with worry. Any idea where he might be staying?"

"Familiar grounds," Enzo mulled aloud, before looking at her. "Dangerous grounds for a kid on the run. How long he been gone? Any cash?"

"Eight days. Probably a couple hundred after bus fare to get him here," she supplied.

"Doubt they coulda turned him yet," he muttered under his breath.

"Turned him?" she questioned.

"Pimps. Dealers. User?"

"He's a good kid," she dissented, "Excellent student. Church every Sunday, youth group Wednesday nights. Plays football and baseball for his school. He's been struggling with his parents' divorce and a breakup with his longtime girlfriend seemed to push him over the edge." He handed her back the photograph.

"Try the Stardust and Lamp Light, both on the Boulevard. Cheap, don't care how old ya are, long as ya can show the green. Lotsa kids hold up there when they run short of bread."

"Thanks, Enzo."

Slipping the picture back into her pocket she returned to Murphy's rented Bronco.

"Hollywood Boulevard," she instructed. "Either the Stardust or Lamp Light." Backing the car out of the alley, he nodded. The Boulevard was less than a minute from where they were.

"Have you told Steele? That we're working together?" he wondered.

"Of course, I did. I don't have any secrets from him," she stated emphatically, at which point Murphy leveled a long look at the broth she was sipping again. "It's not the same thing at all," she waved a hand at him. "If he knew I had the stomach flu he'd either worry himself and nag me to death or would be on the next plane home." She shook her head. "It's important he and Thomas have this time together. I want him to enjoy it."

"How'd he take you and I rejoining forces?" he asked, letting the last go.

"He's just glad I have someone watching my back," she told him truthfully. "Sherry doesn't mind you working while you're here?"

"Nah. We both think it's important I keep my P.I. license here in good standing, in case we have to move back for any reason." He turned into a parking lot, grabbing the ticket out of the printer and driving forward once the arm rose.

"Is there a chance of that?" He lifted a shoulder and dropped it as he pulled into a parking spot.

"We have a good life in Denver, really good. But Sher's parents are getting older and she's an only child. So, never say never." Getting out of the car, they walked in companionable silence until they reached the sidewalk. "So, what's the plan, boss?"

"I thought we'd try good old fashioned honesty." When Murphy opened the door, she stepped into a dimly lit stairwell. The Lamp Light was located above a tattoo parlor and clothing store, one of those disrespectable establishments which rented the rooms by the hour. "Stay close but not too close," she told him in an undertone. Approaching the desk, she fished Dylan's picture out of her back pocket again, this time along with her credentials. The desk clerk looked up then away, dismissively.

"Lady, yer lost. This ain't the Ritz," he informed her, laughing at his own joke.

"It's so easy to get the two confused," she answered dryly, before laying her open identification and the boy's picture on the counter. "Have you seen him?"

"Nope."

"It might help if you turned around and looked." With a weary sigh tossed her way, he turned and glanced at the picture.

"Nope," he repeated. Gathering up picture and ID, Laura gave him a withering look.

"Thank you. You've been most helpful." Spinning on her heel, she marched past Murphy towards the stairs.

"That's it?" Murphy asked from behind her.

"That's it. On to the Star Dust." Staring at her back, he followed her down the stairs.

"He barely looked at the picture," he protested. She stopped and pinched the bridge of her nose when the ground swayed beneath her feet.

"He didn't know him," was her short answer, as she began to walk briskly again, ignoring the men who called from slow rolling cars inquiring if she was 'open for business' or 'looking for action.' Murphy caught back up to her and casually slung a hand around her waist. "What are you doing?" she asked, frowning up at him.

"Minimizing the interest you're drawing from would-be customers," he told her. She shrugged off his arm and placed distance between them.

"I'm fine," she clipped.

"Still as stubborn as you ever were." She gave him a tight smile.

"No, still perfectly capable of taking care of myself," she corrected, as a catcall directed at her lit the air. "I don't care about them." She flipped a hand in the direction of the car, before pausing at the curb then dashing across the four lanes to the other side of the street. Dodging his way around a couple of cars, Murphy followed.

The Star Dust was situated on the corner of a long row of adjoined buildings. It may have appeared moderately more respectable than the last but when they stepped inside her stomach rolled at the smells of sweat, sex and pot which hung thick in the air. Pressing hand-to-mouth, she willed the broth to stay down and began breathing through her mouth to cut the assault to her olfactory senses. Still, she walked with purpose towards the glass enclosed 'reception desk.' Pulling out ID and photo, she slipped them through the scant opening.

"I'm looking for this boy. I hear he's been staying here." The greasy haired clerk looked at the picture then at her.

"What's it to you?"

"I've been hired by his parents to find him." He shoved picture and ID back through the opening.

"Never seen him." Laura visibly sighed.

"Look…" she leaned over to see his crooked name tag, "Look, Larry, you look as tired as I feel. I don't want to be out here going from hotel-to-hotel, when I'm sick as a dog, no less. I've got bills to pay, just like you, and the client is my boss. They say go traipse the streets, I go traipse the streets, never mind that I'm doing everything I can not to mess up your floors at this very minute. Help a girl out, will you?" She flipped up a fifty between her two fingers. "I'm not going to make the kid do anything he doesn't want to do. I'm merely trying to assure his parents he's safe. The rest is up to them." She made the mistake of breathing through her nose when she finished her spiel and slapped her hand over her mouth, scrunching her face, as the broth threatened again.

"Ah, geez, lady," the clerk whined, realizing the woman in front of him wasn't lying about making a mess of his floors. "I don't need that tonight on toppa everything else. Ain't seen the kid in a day or so. Try the diner owned by the old Sicilian dude on the next block. He's always feeding kids, trying to convince them to go home."

"Thanks," she gritted out, picking up the picture and her ID, then turned to leave.

"Uh, lady?" Laura looked over her shoulder at the guy, who was scrubbing the fingers of his hand together. Rolling her eyes, she shoved the fifty under the glass then strode quickly from the building. Outside she braced her back against the building, breathing in the night air, tinged with gas and smog, trying to wash away the scents inside the hotel.

"Look, pal, maybe we outta get you home?" Murphy suggested. She shook her head at him.

"I'm fine," she insisted. "The smell in there…" She allowed the thought to stand and pushed herself off the wall, turning left down the street. "Let's go find this diner."

"Laura, Steele'll have my head if you pass out on Hollywood Boulevard, and I wouldn't blame him if he did," he tried again. Halting, she spun on a heel, and planted fists on her hips.

"Murphy, Mr. Steele doesn't decide what I will or will not do and the _only_ person answerable for those decisions is myself," she informed him while shaking her head at him. "And among the things _I will not do_ is repeatedly remind you, like I find myself constantly doing with him: _I can take care of myself_. Do you understand me?" He held up his hands, palms facing her even as she stormed off, leaving him watching her back.

"Understood. The more things change…" he muttered.

"I heard that," she called back to him. Letting out a short breath of air, he wondered how Steele had ever gotten through to the woman. He lagged behind her until she jogged across an intersection, at which point he rejoined her. "This must be it," she told him, hitching a thumb towards a storefront on the left. Through the window they could see rows of tables, stools anchored into the floor at the counter and a fair mixture of people from all walks of life. Without preamble, she pushed through the door and walked straight up to the counter. "Can I speak with the owner, please?"

"Busy," the gum smacking waitress dressed in a jeans and a t-shirt informed Laura, with a nod of her head towards one of the men standing behind grills in the open kitchen. Laura spied an older man who bore a startling resemblance to Mel from _Alice. Linda Lavin, Vic Tayback, Polly Holliday, Warner Bros, 1976-1985_ , she recited the credits automatically in her head, then mentally scrunched her nose at the habit she'd picked up from her Mr. Steele. The older, balding man, wore a white t-shirt, dirty from the hash he was slinging, with an equally dirty apron tied around his stout figure.

"I need to speak with him about a missing kid," Laura persisted, drawing an eye roll from the waitress.

"Pops, woman needs ta talk with ya about one a them kids," she shouted back towards the kitchen. 'Pops' looked Laura and Murphy over before indicating for the man next to him to take the grill. Wiping his hands with his apron he stepped to the counter. Laura slid the picture across the counter to him.

"We're trying to locate this boy. We were told you help runaways now and again?" Pops nodded, recognizing the teenager in the photograph.

"Dylan. Good boy. Confused. Scared. Too soft for these streets. I tell him: _go home_ ," he informed the PI's. Laura imperceptibly straightened while Murphy leaned forward with interest.

"Do you know where he's staying?" Murphy queried. Pops shook his head in the negative

"He comes. He eats. We talk. He leaves. Two days now."

"When? Has he been in tonight?" Laura pressed.

"Come and gone. Eight, eight-thirty." Laura suppressed the urge to sigh. They'd missed him by two and a half hours, starting the search late when most of the street kids seemed to flood the street.

"Here's my card. We'll be here tomorrow night. If he comes in before that, please call me. One of us will drop whatever we're doing and get right over here," she requested. Pops gave a nod of his head then returned to his kitchen.

"Time to call it a night?" Murphy asked as they departed the diner. Laura glanced at her watch. Ten-forty-one. By the time she picked up the Porsche from the Agency, drove home and showered it would be nearly midnight, eight in the morning London time. Reluctantly, she nodded her head.

By eleven-forty-nine, she was showered, dressed in Remington's shirt and under the covers of their bed. Reaching for the phone, she dialed, then waited at the phone rang on the other end, hoping she hadn't missed him.

"Steele, here," Remington's warm tenor spoke into her ear.

"You're still there," she responded, unable to keep the pleasure from her voice.

"Did you think I might leave before I knew you were home safe and sound? Mmmm?" he asked, leaning his backside against the kitchen counter. Already up and dressed for the day ahead he wore a navy, Donegal tweed, three-piece suit with light blue tie that he'd picked up from his tailor the day prior.

"Aren't you supposed to meet Thomas at Agri-Britain this morning?"

"I am and I will. Thomas is well-aware where my priorities lie and I'll meet him once more important matters are tended to," he replied. "Now, tell me, how did it go with Meyerson. Does he believe he'll be able to get some information from his contact at the INS on Anna?" Laura slapped the palm of her hand against her forehead and left it there.

"Oh, no, I forgot to call him," she lamented. This earned a lift of his brow. _Laura Holt Steele forgetting something?_

"This is important, Laura," he reminded her. She closed her eyes and scrunched her face at the words.

"I know, I know. I'll get on it as soon as I get to the office in the morning," she promised.

"And the younger deranged DesCoine? Have we a visitor log yet?" Laura's hand moved from forehead to temple to massage as the pounding in her head built. "Lau-ra…" he drew out her name into the silence.

"In the morning, Mr. Steele," she clipped out defensively. "Between everything going on at the office and not feeling well, I dropped the ball." He stood erect at the last words.

"Not feeling well?" he inquired, concern threaded throughout his voice. She scrunched her face at the slip of the tongue. She was even more run down that she knew to have let that cat out of the bag.

"This headache," she covered, justifying it wasn't actually a lie… more of a half-truth. He relaxed at the words.

"Still plaguing you, then?"

"Mmmmm. Hopefully it will be gone by morning." She rolled to her side and pulled his pillow to her.

"Paint me a picture, love." She smiled at the request, wondering when it would come.

"Your shirt, socks, your pillow, facing your side of the bed." He closed his eyes, envisioning her, right down to the strain around her eyes which was always present during one of her headaches.

"Close your eyes, then," he instructed. "I can see the early vestiges of spring arriving, the snowdrop, daffodils and crocuses already in bloom. I'd like for us to return to London around this time next year, make a visit to Kew Gardens, where fields of daffodils and tulips bloom. The Gardens are so much more than just the botanicals, with some of the most storied architecture throughout London. The Palm House was the first structure to ever avail of wrought iron as part of a building's structure and is said to have been fashioned after a ship's hull. It was originally built to home the wide species of palms collected from abroad and brought to London during the Victorian Era—"

"The vast array of knowledge you have stored in that mind of yours, Mr. Steele, continues to amaze me," she mumbled. A wide smile spread across his face at the compliment.

"Ah, but there's so much more yet to tell, Mrs. Steele," he preened. An ocean away, Laura rolled her eyes, realizing she'd once again stroked his ego. "The Temperate House is the world's largest, surviving Victorian glass structure. It took more than forty years to complete construction and is designated for housing…" For five minutes he rambled on about the Princess of Wales Conservatory which was slated to open the following summer, the Arboretum, the Kew Palace and the Pagota. The stories were fascinating, but his voice at this hour proved to have its normal sedative effect on her. When her silence held and he heard her soft sigh on the other end of the phone, he ended his narrative. "Say goodnight, love," he urged.

"Good night, sweetheart," she told him quietly, then reached behind her and dropped the phone in the cradle.


	5. Chapter 5: Conspiracy Afoot

Chapter 5: Conspiracy Afoot

 _You have_ _got_ _to be kidding me!_ was the first thought that came to Laura's mind when she woke Thursday morning. Sitting up carefully in bed, she pressed fingers to forehead and slowly rocked herself, trying to will away the nausea. It was her own fault, she knew, that the bug was lingering. Frances had called the night before and had commiserated with her younger sister, apologizing again and again that her children had communicated the bug to her. Donald had caught it as well, and, like Laura, had attempted to rally through it the whole of Monday and part of Tuesday before he finally raised the white flag. It was only after a half of day in bed on Tuesday and nearly the entirety of Wednesday that he finally shook it.

"I don't understand," Laura bemoaned to her sister, "The kids were _fine_ in twenty-four hours!"

"Well, Laura, we _are_ getting older. What's easy for kids to get over is not necessarily the same for ourselves." Laura scowled at the phone. _Great, not only am I sick, but now I'm being told I'm old. Thanks, sis!_ "You need to follow Donald's example. Take a couple of days, sleep it off-"

"That's not an option right now, Frances. Remington's still in London. I don't only have my normal caseload, but have to oversee what he would normally handle, as well."

"I could come over, take care—" Frances continued as though Laura had never spoken.

"No!" she almost shouted, the very idea more horrifying than the bug sticking around a couple more days. Taking a breath, she let it out slowly, her voice more modulated when she spoke again. "I appreciate the offer, I really do, but not right now. I give you my word, if I'm not better this weekend, I'll spend all of Saturday in bed." _As though I'll have a choice,_ she thought to herself.

"I really think—" Frances persisted.

"Frances, a client just walked in, I have to go," she cut her sister off with the prevarication. "I'll talk to you soon."

Day four of misery, it seemed, was now about to commence. The bug was definitely taking its toll, she noted, as she stood up and flushed the toilet after yet another round of stomach emptying. She was exhausted and it showed, circles starting to form under drawn eyes. Makeup, at least, could cover those telltale signs for the most part. Visine for the eyes reddened by restless sleep. A shower to ease the aches and pains. Some tea to try and ease her parched throat, if, of course, it didn't come right back up.

The three long nights behind her hadn't helped matters in the least. On Tuesday night she and Murphy had arrived at the diner by seven-thirty, lying-in-wait for the young Dylan Parsons to appear. By nine-thirty, they'd accepted he'd be a no-show on the evening and had decided to take to the streets themselves. The experience had hit a little too close to home for her. Kids, dirty and hungry, taking shelter in the alleyways. Young girls, some not much older than Mindy, turned out on the streets. A couple of scrums between boys embittered and angered by the lot they'd chosen or had been imposed upon them. Several times on the evening, she sent Daniel a silent thank you for getting Remington out when he had.

She'd told Remington as much that night during their phone call.

"How does this happen? It's the late '80's in _America_! Little girls, not much older than Mindy, being sold on our streets. Boys peddling drugs virtually out in the open! Where are the police? Where are social services? Where are the parents?" Her reaction alone was cause for the lift of a brow. This was Laura, the woman whom had mastered the art of allowing the general evils of society to bounce right off the invisible armor she wore.

"Apathy. Lack of homes willing to take children in. Limited resources. Fear. Any combination thereof. It may be the '80's, but it's a condition that has existed for time immemorial."

Well, it didn't mean she had to accept it. Even if it meant only getting Dylan off the streets, that was one less child lost to them. So, back out she and Murphy had gone the night before. She'd been so relieved when he walked through the door of the diner at eight-ten, she'd almost missed Murphy's signal to be ready. As soon as Pops sat down in the opposite of the booth from Dylan, they moved. Murphy slid smoothly into the booth next to the boy, effectively trapping him against a wall, while Laura sat down next to Pops. It had taken the three adults the better part of two hours to convince the kid his parents weren't angry, just scared. They'd welcome him home with open arms. They _wanted_ him home. He'd finally agreed to go see his father at the same Downtowner Motel where Remington and Laura had stayed a year and half before during the Shane case. Every one of those long nights was instantly made invaluable when they witnessed a father reduced to tears, embracing the son he'd feared lost.

The days had been no less hectic. On Tuesday morning, she'd visited both of the Fournier installation sites where she'd taken copious notes so she could accurately relay the progress to Remington when they spoke that afternoon. Back at the office by nine-forty, she met with Mildred to discuss the progress with Major DesCoines's visitor log. There had been none. Frustrated, she resolved it was time to call in a debt long owed to them by Jarvis. After a good deal of fast talking while reminding him how many times Remington had been falsely accused by the LAPD, he'd relented and agreed to have the visitor log faxed to the office by end of business Friday. Next up, a phone call to Meyerson who'd promised to get in touch with his contact at the INS immediately. Five more interviews, eliminating three more prospective employees. And amid all of the appointments and follow-up, she and Murphy managed to step out of the office long enough to eliminate one suspect: Nicholas Romano.

Romano lived in a modest two bedroom, one bath, eight hundred square foot home in Costa Mesa with his mother. According to Romano, he'd been living an honest life since his release from prison three years before, working as a welder in a nearby town.

"From what Morton tells me, you threatened him after you were convicted for armed robbery," Murphy noted.

"Yeah, I was pissed, but I'm not stupid," Romano protested. "Only reason I knocked off the store in the first place is cuz my woman was knocked up. We needed money. I already lost a year 'n a half of my kid's life. Hell, I even came clean with the parole board to cut my time so I could get home to my kid. No way I'm gonna go back inside."

"If you're as innocent as you claim to be, you won't have an issue telling us where you were last Saturday," Laura suggested. Saturday was the day Morton's grill had exploded. He'd used it the night prior to cook dinner, and the explosion took place at noon as he as warming up the grill for lunch.

"Easy. The old lady and I took the kid up to Big Bear for the weekend. Left out Friday after I got off work, didn't come back 'til Sunday night" Romano answered, standing up to pull his wallet out of his pocket. He extracted several pieces of paper from his wallet, handing them to Laura before sitting back down. She skimmed through the gas and hotel receipts, then raised her brows at Murphy.

"He's telling the truth," she said with a bit of surprise, handing the receipts to Murphy. After thumbing through the receipts Murphy could only concur.

Four suspects left standing.

It seemed to Laura on Wednesday and Thursday that Bernice had made it a point to pack Laura's schedule back-to-back as though Abigail were due to arrive in town. Fourteen interviews of wannabe investigators, accepting three, rejecting the other eleven. Five new client meetings, from which they walked away with four skip traces and one asset search. On Thursday, another spot of check of two more of the Fournier installations. Remington would definitely have his hands full when he returned home, with four systems to inspect, a large handful of Fournier stores to still assess and draw up plans for, as well as four potential clients on hold awaiting his return.

On Thursday, they managed to clear another suspect off the list in the Morton matter. This one was quickly accomplished and Ed Carlsen's alibi was airtight. Carlsen had moved to Rancho Cucamonga two years before, after the divorcing his homicidal wife. He'd remarried six months before and had, according to wife number two, been living a good life until six weeks before when he died of a massive heart attack. Well, if dead men tell no tales, they certainly don't plan murders.

Then, at four-fifty-three on Thursday, Detective Jarvis came through and the fax machine began spitting out fourteen pages of Major DesCoine's visitors over the course of the last two and a half years. Packing up those sheets of paper along with the Agency financials for February, Laura knew exactly what she would be doing in the evening ahead.

Unbeknownst to her, however, a conspiracy was afoot. Murphy had been watching his friend and former partner closely across the week they'd teamed back up again, and as the week had progressed, so had his concern for her. Remington, in the meantime, had cleared his afternoon in order to sit down with Laura's notes on the first two security installations so that he could get back to her with any concerns he might have. And, with his afternoon open before him, he thought to surprise his lovely wife with an early morning call.

"The Remington Steele Agency, how many I help you?" Bernice's voice came over the trans-Atlantic line.

"Ah, Mrs. Wolf, I see you've once more mastered the art of reaching out and touching someone," he droned.

"I'm going to reach out and touch _you_ if you don't start calling me by my name. Hawke. H-A-W-K-E," she shot back. Murphy's ears perked up at Bernice's response to the called, immediately picking up on who was on the line. He crossed the reception area to perch a hip on Bernice's desk.

"Haven't we already had this conversation? A bird of prey is not at all befitting a woman such as yourself. You are nothing if not a –"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she cut him off. "What is the man of leisure doing calling at this hour? Other than to annoy me, that—" She found herself speaking into the air when the receiver was plucked out of her hand. "Hey, what are you doing?!" she demanded to know of Murphy.

"What should have been done two days ago," he told her with a shrug. Bernice grabbed for the phone, while he moved it smoothly away. Remington leaned against the kitchen counter in the townhouse listening to the exchange with interest.

"She'll be furious, Murph," Bernice warned. Murphy irritated her with another shrug of a shoulder.

"Won't be the first time," he pointed out. "I'd want to know if it were Sher. Wouldn't you if it were Jason?" Remington stood erect at the comment, his shoulders stiffening immediately. Mildred ventured out of her office, listening with interest. "Steele, Michaels here. Enjoying your vacation?"

"What's happened to Laura?" Remington demanded to know, forgoing the niceties.

"She's fine, other than being unable to keep food down all week, having dropped at least five pounds I'd say, and being on the verge of collapse," Murphy answered casually, while examining his fingernails. Remington relaxed at discovering she'd not been shot or seriously injured then his temper ignited realizing she'd concealed her illness from him and had apparently ordered Bernice and Mildred to do the same.

"Bloody hell," he cussed with a mix of irritation and concern. He glanced at his watch. Five-fifteen. There should be one, if not two, flights leaving Heathrow for LAX still on the evening. "I'll be on the next flight. Have Bernice clear her schedule tomorrow, she won't be in. And Michaels? Thank you."

"Sure thing," he answered, with a nod that couldn't be seen, then leaned over and dropped the receiver in the cradle. He turned his attention back to Bernice. "Clear Laura's schedule for tomorrow."

"I wouldn't want to be you on Monday," Bernice predicted.

"Like I said, nothing new. But maybe you need to worry about yourself," he grinned.

"What would I have to worry about? _I didn't_ rat her out, _you did_ ," she defended. Murphy stood to return to Laura's office.

"True. But by now Steele's realized both of you," he looked from her to Mildred, "Kept her little secret, and judging by what I just heard? He's furious."

* * *

Laura arrived home just after six-thirty, with a briefcase full of papers, a raging headache and a gnawing hunger that she'd left answered all day for fear of eating ending the way it had in days past. Still, she was bound and determined, just as she'd been every other night that week, to put something in her body. Opening the refrigerator, she pulled out a carton of yogurt, only to toss it in the trash as she found it no more appealing than she had the Sunday prior. She quickly ruled fruit out, too acidic, certain her stomach wasn't up for it. In the end, she plucked out one of those pudding cups Remington had teased her about and once the cool richness of the treat slid over her tongue making her taste buds dance and then down her throat, soothing the burn, she finished it off in under a minute then reached for a second which she ate with slow enjoyment as the kettle on the stove warmed water for a cup of tea.

Thirty minutes later, she collapsed in the corner of the sofa, the file with the information from Jarvis in hand. Stubbornly battling the fatigue that had plagued her for days, she meticulously went through the visitor's log, crossing off any male visitors and narrowing her focus to the females. An hour after that, she closed the file, confident she'd discovered the identity of Minor DesCoine. Setting the file aside, she took the financials with her upstairs where they could wait for her until after a long soak in the tub, which she hoped would ease the headache some.

By nine, she was tucked into bed, going over the financials line-by-line. Her meeting with the accountant had been postponed until Monday, but she was determined she wouldn't be hunkered over the ledgers on Sunday when Remington came home. At ten, she set aside the paperwork and picked up the phone to make her nightly call, only for the phone to ring unanswered. She laughed quietly to herself, assuming her husband had succumbed to his normal habit of sleeping the morning away. Turning off the bedside lamp, she wrapped herself around Remington's pillow and drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Midnight was fast approaching when the taxi cab pulled into the driveway at the house in Holmby Hills. Weary after the long flight at the tail end of nearly a full day, Remington found a sudden surge of energy when the plane had set down at LAX. After paying the driver and giving him a generous tip, he quietly entered the house, leaving his suitcase and garment bag in the foyer before jogging up the stairs on silent feet.

He found Laura where he expected and how: in their bed, sound asleep, wearing the white shirt he'd sent her and wrapped around his pillow. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he stroked a firm hand down her arm, drawing at first a frown in her sleep, then clear recognition she was not alone. Eyes fluttering open, she rolled to her back, to find Remington staring down at her.

"My God, I've missed you," he said quietly into the stillness of the room, the back of his fingers tracing the silhouette of her face. With all the effortless grace he admired, she rose to a sitting position and wrapped her arms around his neck, his arms automatically slipping around her back and drawing her close. Tucking her face into the nook of his neck she drew in a long breath reveling in his smell, the warmth of his body against hers, and the feel of his silken hair under her fingers. She pressed her lips against his neck before drawing back.

"What are you doing here?"

"I needed a good night's sleep and there's only one place I'll find it," he answered before clasping her neck and drawing her lips to his. He luxuriated in the feel of her lips under his, their warmth, their texture, her taste.

"Then come to bed, Mr. Steele," she quietly urged when their lips parted. He stole another sweet kiss.

"It would be my absolute, unequivocal pleasure, Mrs. Steele," he murmured against her lips, before touching them with his one last time and standing. Shedding his coat and clothes and forgoing pajama pants, he climbed into his side of the bed in only his briefs then held out an arm to her, sighing when she wriggled over to him then lay her head into that place under his shoulder. For the first time in almost a week he felt truly at peace until he realized how light she was against his side, reminiscent of the days after Roselli had her in his clutches. He set the thought aside, there would be time enough to fight in the morning, for now all he wanted was to keep her near, surround himself in her scent and her warmth.

Laura nuzzled herself tighter against Remington's side, splaying a single leg over his hips before gliding a hand over his achingly familiar chest, her fingers eventually finding his side. She closed her eyes, enjoying the comforting familiarity of each rise and fall of his ribs, in knowing when he would shift ever so slightly when her fingers stroked here, would draw a deep breath and let it out slowly when her fingers caressed there. She could only wonder how she hadn't always known that this was the way it would be between them… or maybe that was what she'd feared all along. Rolling to lay on her other side, with a gentle pull to his hand he followed, spooning around her and gathering her close. Only when their hands were joined and tucked against her chest, did she speak.

"I missed you too," she breathed. He savored the words, such admissions not easily made by her, and bussed her on the top of head to express how much it had meant to him.

Not another word spoken between them, they slept.


	6. Chapter 6: Windmills

Chapter 6: Windmills

The voices of Norman and Bud from KROT radio, which Laura would describe as a refreshing morning wakeup call while Remington would claim it to be nothing short of annoying clamor, blared through the bedroom. Waking she found she'd shifted to her back as they'd slept and he'd adjusted to the new position by securing one arm around her hip and worming one of his legs around and under one of hers. That same man groaned and then muttered an oath at being woken yet another morning in such a tasteless manner.

"Turn it off, love. I've cleared your schedule for the day," he managed to mumble, while brushing a strand of hair from his mouth, never opening his eyes. She turned her head to look at him.

"You have?" He nodded his head and gave a tug at her waist.

"Mmmmm hmmm, now make that offensive noise go away," he requested. Rolling to her side as she tried to decide whether to be irritated by the news he'd just imparted, she pressed the off button the radio. Rolling again towards her back, she felt the bed sway beneath her, and with some desperation shoved Remington's arm and leg off her before making a mad dash for the bathroom. Springing out of bed behind her, he followed on her heels, gathering her hair back in one hand and rubbing her back with the other as she leaned over the bowl.

"How long?" he inquired when she sat back on her haunches panting.

"All week," she gasped. He nodded as he helped her stand, relieved that while she'd hid it from him, she hadn't now lied to him directly. He waited until she brushed her teeth and rinsed her mouth, then returned to bed, sliding in behind her to lay on his side, head propped in hand.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but didn't the children get over this rather quickly?" She placed a hand over her eyes, willing back the next round.

"It took Donald three-and-a-half days," she answered, instead. "Frances said I'm having a harder time getting over it because I'm getting old."

"That may be," he began, earning him a lift of her hand and a scowl, to which he returned a lopsided smile. "But you'll either be ringing up your physician today and scheduling an appointment—"

"It can take days to get in—" she tried to override.

"Or, after a bit more sleep," he interrupted, voice rising a bit, "Which we are _both_ sorely in need of, we'll be taking a trip 'round to the Emergency Ward later this morning."

"I'm not—" she began to argue, then abruptly stopped. Five days, of being unable to keep down anything of significance. Stubborn though she might be, she wasn't stupid, understanding the dangers of dehydration, a state she was pretty sure she was flirting with by now. She nodded slowly. "Alright. But if we're going to the ER, I'd rather go now when it'll most likely be less crowded, then come home and sleep after."

He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth and climbed back out of bed.

* * *

Laura discovered one upside to their 'other identities' in London being splashed across the front page of the Society Section the Monday prior: It appeared nurses, CNA's and admin clerks alike enjoyed that particular section of Times as much as others did People Magazine.

"Aren't you? Wasn't' that you?" babbled the admit clerk, admirably keeping her voice low until the last line where it pitched high enough to carry to several nurses, an orderly and, she guessed, a doctor or two. "Aren't you like Royalty? A…a…a… Countess?" Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she focused on patience. _This_ she didn't need.

"Laura Steele," she corrected, stabbing a finger towards the paperwork she'd dutifully filled out. The twenty-something-year-old suddenly appeared bored.

"Have a seat. We'll get to you when we can," she instructed. With a hand on the small of her back, Remington guided her towards a section of seats which would allow them a relative amount of privacy. As they sat down, both of them glimpsed a newspaper being passed around the nurses' station. Turning her head away from the scene, she muttered an oath under her breath while he suppressed a smile. If the news reaching LA meant Laura would be seen sooner than later, well, in his eyes, it was well worth her momentary dissatisfaction. He wasn't off base, when not even sixty seconds had elapsed before Laura's name was called and they were ushered into the back and escorted to a private room instead of the curtained area. She'd no sooner lifted herself onto the bed, than the door swung open and an older man wearing a white lab coat entered.

"Mrs. Steele, Dr. Mark Kerr, Chief of Emergency Medicine," he held at her, then offered the same to Remington. "So, what brings you here this morning?" he asked, directing the question to Laura.

"I can't seem to shake this stomach bug I picked up from my nieces and nephews last weekend." The doctor hummed and nodded.

"There are a couple varieties going around right now. Half the waiting room is here for the same. How long were your nieces and nephews symptomatic?"

"Twenty-four hours, maybe a little less. But my brother-in-law had it for three-and-a-half days.'

"He may not have had the same strain or it could simply be his age." She huffed at that and averted her gaze from her bemused husband. "When did your first symptoms appear?"

"Monday morning." She kept it short and sweet but couldn't help slanting her eyes for a peek at Remington's reaction only to puff again. _I'll never hear the end of it,_ she thought after seeing the annoyance in the telltale twitch of his jaw.

"Worse in the morning, at night?" She shook her head.

"Worse morning and afternoon, not as bad in the evenings."

"What have you eaten or drank in the last twenty-four hours?" Her eyes shifted again as the doctor's questions continued to add to the things she'd be hearing about from her partner and husband when they were alone.

"Tea and ginger ale yesterday morning and afternoon. A bite of yogurt that didn't taste quite right. Some pudding right after that. Tea this morning."

"And none of it stayed down?" he clarified.

"Some of the tea yesterday afternoon, the pudding, and the tea from this morning," she wrinkled her nose, "At least so far." Opening the door, he flagged down the nurse that had accompanied them to the room.

"Lydia, let's get Mrs. Steele's temperature and BP while I take a look at her." Without a word, the nurse did as instructed while Kerr completed a cursory exam.

"Temperature ninety-four-eight, BP eighty-five over sixty," Lydia reported, then scribbled the results on the chart now laying on the bed.

"Lie back, if you wouldn't mind," Kerr instructed Laura, then palpitated her abdomen once she was reclined. "Lydia, order a CBC, Chem-7 and a urine dip. Also, let's go ahead and start a saline drip. You can sit back up, Mrs. Steele. Any dizziness, lethargy, headaches the past few days?" She looked towards the ceiling at that question.

"Here and there."

"Alright," he nodded as though he expected the answer. "I want to run a few tests, check your electrolyte, potassium and sodium levels. Your blood pressure is lower than I'd like, couple that with your dry eyes and lips, I want to get some fluid into you. I'll put a rush on the lab tests, so we can get you out of here as quickly as possible, but expect to be here at least another hour while we get you hydrated."

"Alright," she echoed his earlier word.

"I'll be back as soon as we get the results," Kerr assured. "Any questions?" When she indicated she didn't have any he departed the room. Lydia returned with the urinalysis kit, and by the time Laura emerged from the private bathroom, the phlebotomist was waiting on her. Blood drawn, IV inserted by Lydia into the vein in her right arm, and she and Remington were at last alone. Lifting her fingers to her temples, she began to rub, as the headache which had been her companion the last days announced its arrival.

"Monday, eh?" Remington asked, crossing his arms. "Wasn't it on Monday that I inquired about your health and you stated you _'only'_ had a headache?" She exhaled hard in exasperation.

"You know it was," she answered, not bothering to apologize. "Can we at least wait to argue until I'm not hooked up to an IV and my head's not pounding?" A bit of dirty pool maybe, but she knew he wouldn't pursue his outrage when she was in pain.

"We can, but I assure you, there is an argument in our future, Mrs. Steele," he forewarned as he rose from his chair to stand next to the bed. "Up you get, then," he ordered. Her eyes widened at him.

"Here? What will it look like?" she protested.

"I imagine it will look like precisely what it is: A husband offering his wife some relief from her pain," he told her as he took her hand and pulled her into a sitting position before situating himself behind her. He brushed away her hands when she lay back against him, then let his fingers work their magic.

"I knew how you'd react if I told you I was sick," she told him when she finally broke the silence. "You needed to spend time with Thomas, not worry about me."

"You were worried I'd insist you put your health ahead of the Agency," he challenged. She took exception to the word 'insist' and stiffened against him.

"Which would then force me to remind you, yet again, that I can take care of myself," she retorted. He shook his head and let out a short breath.

"There you go, flailing at that particular windmill yet again," he answered crossly. "Why is it you persist in confusing someone giving a damn about you and wanting to keep you here with them as a personal affront to your womanhood? I suppose if roles were reversed you'd have just said 'off with you then,' eh? We both know that not to be the case given how many times you've sat me on the sidelines, have boxed my ears for taking undue risks. Should I see those times, times which will surely occur again in the future, as an attack upon my virility?" The wind in her sails deflated with his outburst.

"No, of course not," she protested all for naught, as his own temper had been pricked and he wasn't going to let it go. His fingers stilled and his hands dropped to her shoulders.

"Then can we bloody well come to an understanding that if I'm concerned about your health or well-being, it hasn't a _damned thing_ to do with seeing you as less than my equal and _everything_ to do with the fact there's _never been anyone_ _in my life_ whose very existence was intrinsic to my own?"

"Remington—" she tried to soothe.

"No, Lau-ra. Not _Remington_ ," he mocked the way in which she'd said it as he left the bed to pace. "Have you any idea what it's like to be thousands of miles away and hear you're on the verge of collapse? Have you?" he demanded. Guilt kicked her swiftly in the shin. She knew all too well that particular feeling of helplessness, had earned the lesson well during his days in London, when Roselli had her and she believed Remington injured or dead.

"I'm sorry—" she offered only to be cut off again.

"I don't want your apology, Laura," he rejected, shoving a hand in his pocket while the other swiped roughly at his hair. "I want your _word_. No more lying. No more hiding. And by God, those words never uttered by you to me again!"

"Are you prepared to do the same?" she challenged. "No more pretending to be fine when you can barely keep to your feet after a blow to the head, when your ribs have been cracked, when you've been beaten by—"

"If it means putting an end to this nonsense once and for all, then yes! Yes, I am!"

"Then get back over here and make this headache go away," she demanded by way of answer. Mulishly, he shoved his hand his other hand in his pocket as well.

"Your word," he pressed. Laying her hands against her face, she tipped her head towards the ceiling before throwing up her hands and looking at him.

"You have my word," she agreed, none too graciously then immediately wanted to wipe the smug grin from his face. Crossing her arms, she glared at him. "I'm waiting."

"You've my word," he agreed easily, crossing the room and situating himself behind her again then insistently tugging at her shoulders until she lay back against him. His fingers returned to her temples.

"In a court of law, a contract made under duress wouldn't hold up," she pointed out to him.

"I suppose it's a good thing your neither under duress nor is this a legal contract then, eh?" he asked with amusement. "Of course, it is much more sacrosanct than a mere legal contract… a pledge between husband and wife… Wouldn't you agree?" he forayed on, pushing his luck and knowing it all the while.

"Mr. Steele," she ground out warningly. He grinned, unseen by her, but she knew anyway and planted an elbow into his ribs for his troubles.

"Ooof!" The blow knocked a bit of wind out of him. "I'm sure you won't find it quite as painful as you imagine, Mrs. Steele. I'd even venture to say you might learn to enjoy sharing your ills with me. There are substantial benefits to doing so," he told her, referring to the fingers currently easing her headache. She huffed out a breath, remaining silent, but eventually relaxing into the warmth of his body.

"Who was it?" she finally asked.

"Who was what?" He leaned his head over her shoulder to look at her.

"Who blew the whistle on me?" Returning to his original position, he chuckled lightly.

"Mmmm, I don't believe I'll be sharing that with you, love. You'd only turn your fine temper upon them." She frowned at the answer.

"Need I remind you, I'm a private investigator and there are a limited number of suspects?" He raised an amused brow.

"A limited number, hmmm? How many people have you come into contact this week that I might have spoken to, eh? The contractor, his workers, Monroe, his men, your sister and Donald, Fred, Mildred, Michaels and Mrs. Wolf… Need I continue?"

He didn't have an opportunity to. The door to the room swung open, and Dr. Kerr entered, Lydia following behind pushing a piece of equipment. Getting down off the bed, Remington returned to the chair he'd been previously seated in.

"The results of your tests are back, Mrs. Steele," Kerr announced. "As I suspected, your electrolytes, potassium and sodium are all on the low side, so it's a good thing we started rehydrating you when we did. I wouldn't be surprised if you did have a touch of the stomach bug your family experienced earlier in the week, however an additional test has shown something else at play as well." At this announcement, Laura blinked hard and Remington's stomach plummeted to his feet. Taking to his feet again, he returned to her side, grasping her hand, as much for himself as her.

"Something else at play?" she repeated, questioningly. Kerr picked up her chart and looked at it.

"According to the paperwork you filled out, your last menstrual cycle was just about four week ago?" She nodded.

"I'm due to start day after tomorrow," she confirmed.

"Was it normal? Or lighter, shorter, less symptomatic than normal?" He quizzed further. She frowned as she searched her memory, recalling there had been no cramping, no headache, and hadn't she and Remington made love only a day or two after it began?

"The latter, I believe." Kerr nodded, expecting the answer.

"On a hunch, I had the lab run a pregnancy test," he informed the couple. "The pregnancy check measures human chorionic gonadotropin or hCG, a hormone excreted by a woman's body after an egg has implanted into the uterus. At three to four weeks gestation, we'd expect your hCG level to be between five and four-hundred-twenty-six milli-international units per milliliter, whereas your hCG level was recorded as ninety-six-hundred milli-international units per milliliter, a level we wouldn't expect to see until between seven and nine weeks of pregnancy—" Laura held up her hand to stop him.

"Wait. Just wait. Are you saying you think _I'm pregnant?_ " she croaked. She felt the bed beside her sink down as Remington sat down hard upon it, lifting a hand to rub at his mouth.

"No. I'm saying there's no doubt you're pregnant, the only question is how far along you are," Kerr corrected, grinning at the shocked couple before him. "I take it, this comes as a surprise?" She blinked her eyes several times, then gave a shake of her head, trying to clear it.

"I only went off the pill two-and-a-half months ago," she managed to say.

"So you were trying—" She shook her head adamantly, stopping him again.

"We weren't _trying_ , per se. We'd just decided to stop… trying not to," she finished lamely, feeling silly even as she said the words.

"Well, it seems that endeavor was successful," he smiled. "Now, if you wouldn't mind laying back, and baring your stomach from oh, ribs to hips, I'd like to check out a couple of things." Numbly, she did as asked, releasing Remington's hand while she did, then grabbing it again in an iron vise so he wouldn't go anywhere. She looked up at him as the doctor positioned the equipment next to the bed and turned it on. He'd stood back up when she lay back and was uncharacteristically quiet, working a thumbnail with his teeth. She jolted when cold gel was squeezed onto her stomach. "Always a bit of a shock," Kerr commiserated, before focusing his attention on the screen while his hand maneuvered the wand in his hand. "Ah, there we go," he hummed, then turned the equipment so Laura and Remington could see the screen.

"There we go, _what?_ " Laura asked tightly. To her the screen looked like a black and white television with poor reception. Remington was leaning forward peering at the screen, thinking much the same.

"Right here," he pointed to a white shape within a black void. "His or her head," he pointed, "torso," his finger moved lower, "arm buds and leg buds," he pointed at two areas on the lower side of the white image.

"That's _our child?_ " Remington whispered the last two words reverently, thoroughly captivated by the image before him.

"It is," Kerr confirmed. "I'm just going to take some measurements." Moving the wand now and again, he tapped buttons on the machine, then lastly depressed a button which printed out a long piece of paper. Tearing it off, he handed the paper to Laura. "A keepsake," he told her, before exchanging one wand for another. Kerr once again moved the wand around on her abdomen until a fast thump-thump-thump'ing sound filled the room. Laura closed her eyes at the sound, fighting the tingling behind her eyes, a battle lost as a tear slipped out from under a lid. Remington's eyes continually shifted between Laura's stomach and Kerr.

"Is that…?" His voice was gruff and he couldn't complete the question.

"Your baby's heartbeat, yes." Imparting news such as this to a couple such as the Steele's was a welcome change to all the bad news he had to deliver daily.

"My god," Remington whispered, absently leaning down to brush his lips over Laura's fingers. Kerr allowed the heartbeat to linger on for nearly a minute, before he removed the wand and handed Laura several napkins to clean the gel off her stomach. Only when she'd fixed her clothes and sat back up, Remington taking a seat next to her, did Kerr speak again.

"Based on the bloodwork and what I found on the ultrasound, which confirm you're right at eight weeks, I suspect the two of your will become parents around Thanksgiving," Kerr announced. Remington shook his head.

"How?" he managed to get out. The doctor gave him an amused look.

"Do I really need to give you a lesson the birds and the bees, Mr. Steele?" he joked. Remington flushed red from neck-to-hairline, drawing a laugh from Laura. Mortified, he tried again.

"How is Laura so far along when she had her…" he waved his free hand about, "…cycle last month?"

"It's not uncommon," Kerr answered. "Around ten percent of pregnant women will experience light bleeding that is often mistaken for a period so early on."

"So I don't have a stomach bug…" Laura mulled aloud.

"I'm not saying you didn't have a virus. The odds are you did earlier in the week given your exposure," he countered. "Now, however, I'd say morning sickness is the culprit."

"Morning…?" she began, then halted. "I'm sick _all day._ "

"'Morning sickness' is a bit of a misnomer," Kerr conceded. "Some women will experience only mild nausea first thing in the morning, others will experience nausea and vomiting throughout the day."

"How long will it last?" she asked, dejectedly.

"That's also difficult to predict. For some women it lasts only a couple of weeks, for most it's completely gone between the fourteenth and sixteenth week."

"Oh, God," she bemoaned. "I have a job, I can't _be_ like _this_ for another two months!"

"There are some things you can do that may help," he advised. "Many find tea and crackers or tea and toast to start the day curbs the worst of it. Ginger and peppermint are both known to help ward off nausea and vomiting. Avoiding foods high in fat, grease and when it's at its worse, milk." She closed her eyes and let out a slow breath, unsure how she could take another two months of the way she'd felt the last week.

"Is there anything she shouldn't do, anything else to avoid?" Remington asked, starting to regain his faculties. Laura's eyes flew open and she shot a look at him, her suspicions immediately taking her to believing he hoped she'd be limited in her work duties.

"I don't see a need to place any limitations on her. She's young and in very good physical condition. Over the next several weeks, she may find herself more tired than normal, and may require an afternoon nap to make it through the day. Foods," he looked at Laura, "May taste 'off', such as you described the yogurt. Later on down the line, don't be surprised if she craves some… unique… food combinations." He eyed Remington. "If you're speaking of sex," Laura smirked as Remington's face discolored again, "proceed as normal. Mrs. Steele will likely experience breast tenderness," now it was Laura's turn to flush, "if she hasn't already. Some women report occasional discomfort at deep penetration or overly rambunctious sex. If she's not complaining, you have no worries." They were both shifting uncomfortably by the time Kerr's speech was done. "Any other questions?" Remington shook his head.

"No, nothing," Laura answered, forcing the words past her lips. Kerr nodded, then took a pad out of his pocket, scribbling on it, before tearing off a sheet and handing it to Laura.

"Prescription for prenatal vitamins," he provided. "Get them filled and make an appointment with your OB as soon as you can."

"I will," she assured Kerr, still dazed.

"Take a moment if you wish, but otherwise you're free to leave," Kerr instructed. Remington stood and offered the doctor his hand.

"Thank you."

"My pleasure," Kerr answered, returning the handshake then leaving the room.

Remington moved to stand in front of Laura and taking both her hands, helped her off the bed before wrapping her in an embrace.

"My god, Laura." It was the only words he could speak at the moment. Both were held speechless all the way home.

(TBC)

 ** _A/N: Forgive me RS Fan 17, for I obviously fibbed :) I was hoping you'd prefer the surprise. Now, get ready for the real shockers that lie ahead, because we are, after all, in Wonderland._**


	7. Chapter 7: What's In A Name?

Chapter 7: What's in a Name

Remington dropped Laura at home, then left again for the grocery store and pharmacy, guessing accurately that his introspective partner and wife would need some time alone with her thoughts. For his part, he was thrilled beyond measure. Scared senseless, but thrilled none the less.

A child. _Their_ child. Daughter or son? Who would he or she look like? Would she possess his artistic bent or her mother's musical hand? Would he be a baseball player like his mother or a football player like himself? Blue eyes or brown? Black hair or auburn? Tall or petite? The possibilities for daydreams in the months ahead were virtually endless.

He'd no doubt he'd smiled like a fool when collecting Laura's prenatal vitamins from the pharmacist. Could one blame him?

His smile faded in the market as he ticked off everything Dr. Kerr had told them about diet. The ginger tea, a trick he'd picked up for nausea sometime during his childhood in Ireland, he'd given Laura that morning had stayed down. He tossed several boxes of it into his cart. Eight more weeks of this? Possibly an entire pregnancy? She couldn't afford to lose further weight as it was. While he chewed on that worry he tossed boxes of peppermint and chamomile tea into his cart as well. Tea and toast. Real panic began to set in then. What type of bread? White, honey wheat, whole wheat, multigrain, sourdough, rye, pumpernickel. What bloody type of bread? The doctor hadn't specified. So in the end, he tossed a loaf of each into the cart. Crackers, another invitation for disaster. Did the man mean saltines, captains wafers, soda crackers, or those wheat ones? A box of each kind was tossed into the cart.

Meal preparation was another nightmare in the making. Milk, fat and grease all culprits in prolonging or encouraging nausea and vomiting. Grease was easy enough to avoid, as he rarely fried anything. But milk and fat? Had the doctor any idea exactly how many foods contained one, the other or both in some manner? How challenging it made preparing a meal for a man like him? He fussed about the market for quite a while before it occurred to him the reasons for the changes to the menus, then began grinning again.

It was while he was carefully examining the selection of broccoli at his disposal that he'd stopped cold and puffed out his chest, shifting from foot-to-foot, a smug smile lighting his face as he realized Laura hadn't been off the pill for a full cycle before she was with child. With a waggle of his brows, he mentally thumped himself on the back. It did a man's ego good to know he'd accomplished the task at hand with such ease.

Miles away in their home in Holmby Hills, Laura scrunched up her face and gave a mournful groan as the same thought occurred to her. The man would be prancing about like a peacock, his head the size of the Goodyear blimp if he put it together. He'd be ready to announce her pregnancy to the entire world: _Ah, see, I'm a man. Got the little woman knocked up right quick._ He'd be impossible to control, and what she wanted most at the moment was for this to be just theirs, at least for now.

A child. _Their_ child. Not even four months ago, the idea had initially scared the living hell out of her. She'd asked herself every question there was, had nursed every doubt. It was too soon. They hadn't even figure out how to be married yet, so how would they figure out how to be _parents_? Where would their child be while they were at work? How would they spend sufficient time with their child, given the demands of the Agency? How much would he expect her to give up? An endless list of questions and worries racing through her mind.

And now? Oh, she'd been shocked by Kerr's announcement, there was no denying that. At Christmas when she'd given Remington her pills to do with as he pleased, she'd known pregnancy was always a possibility from there forward. Just somehow in the months since, it wasn't something she'd dwelled on. And in her eyes, that was a good thing, for it was an indication of how far they'd come.

She could see that growth in every aspect of their relationship. The home they owned together. The business they owned together. Their routines. Plans for the future put into action. Even in how she referred to him.

In those first months after Ashford, she'd referred to him as 'Rem'. A nickname, she'd said, when she began to use it, something between just them, an intimacy. She'd used the name liberally during the first five months of their marriage. And gradually, it went on its way. She hadn't even realized herself at first. It was only in finding his father, his 'real name', that she'd put the pieces together.

Ten months ago, if Remington had been handed the birth certificate bearing the name Sean James Fitzgerald she would have celebrated, pushed him to take on what had been his since birth. It's _your name_ , she would have insisted. But it wasn't, wouldn't have been to him. A name bestowed, not earned, even if it came to the him by hand of his parents. Whoever Sean James Fitzgerald was, it hadn't been him for nearly three and a half decades. He wasn't even Harry, the name that had tied him to Daniel and therefore had been his with some consistency the longest. At the end of the day, another name bestowed. It belonged to the hellion pulled from the streets and transformed at the hand of his personal Professor Higgins. It belonged to a teen, then young man, who chose a life because it offered a way out. If anything, the name belonged to Daniel, not him.

But Remington Steele? The name may have been of her creation, and, perhaps, in its tie to her it held that much more value. But it was so much more than that to him. A name never bestowed, at one time perhaps stolen, later temporarily leant. What the name represented to him was _choice._ He chose the life of Remington Steele not because he'd had so few options before him, but because it was the life he wanted. He chose to change everything about himself so that _he_ would feel worthy of the name. It was the name he'd pinned the dream of a future to, a future he'd never once dared to dream of before. A name, a life, chosen then earned.

It had taken her a while to believe this life they were building wasn't just another figment of her imagination, much as the name and mythical figure once were. Rem, the nickname, not so much an intimacy, but more another way of distancing herself, reminding herself not to believe. For those first four months of marriage, she still hadn't quite trusted this was what he really wanted. Believed he _thought_ it was what he wanted, yes, that. But once his dream became reality would it endure? A kidnapping, recovery, surgery, a pregnancy scare, their first holidays, a search for the truth, Minor's appearance, finding a father. Each event only serving to cement reality. And the reality was this was who they were, what they'd been meant to be. Deep in her bones she now knew this was not only what he wanted but he'd waited for.

He was Remington Steele, in heart, mind, life and deed. Friend, partner, lover, husband, son, son-in-law, brother-in-law, uncle and now father-to-be. He was as much hers and she was his. The thought no longer something feared, but fully embraced. And with it came peace, comfort and absolute joy.

Father-to-be, her mind circled around. Girl or boy? Dreamer or realist? Optimist or pragmatist? Prone to flights of fancy or mired in logic? She had no idea. What she knew beyond any doubt is their child would be raised to never fear love, to trust in deeds, to use words with great care. Their child would never be left to feel wanting, less than. Their child would never, not for a moment, question who they were, what they were.

 _Their child_. The idea sent goosebumps skittering down her spine

Her reverie was interrupted by said father of that child arriving home, to drop several bags of groceries on the kitchen counter, next to where she was standing. A quick brush of his lips to hers, and without a word said, he departed, only to return with another armful of bags, then another, and another, before at last pressing a single white bag into her hands and leaning in to kiss her again.

"What's all this?" Laura asked, flabbergasted. A weekly trip to the market usually entailed four, maybe five bags, not a dozen and a half. She received no response, as she reached into the first bag pulling out a loaf of bread. She looked up to find him standing watching her, hands in his pockets, shifting from foot-to-foot and a silly lopsided smile on his face. _Damn._ "Don't go there, Remington," she warned, frowning as she pulled out a second loaf of bread.

"I've no idea what you mean," he replied, smile only widening. Stepping away from the counter, she planted her hands on her hip and tilted up her chin.

"Need I remind you it took _the two of us_ to get me pregnant? You didn't do this all on your own, _big guy_." He shifted from foot-to-foot again.

"Of course, I didn't," he agreed, easily enough.

"Then wipe that smarmy grin off your face, get any idea of telling everyone and anyone I'm pregnant out of your head, and let's unpack these groceries," she ordered, returning her attention to the bags. He frowned at her back but did as requested. When she removed four more loaves of bread from the bag, she gave him a curious look.

"Dr. Kerr didn't specify what type of toast," he shrugged. Her laughter bubbled up when she watched him pull several selections of crackers out of the bag he was unpacking.

"Let me guess…" He shrugged, a smile again lifting the corners of his lips.

"Believe me, love, you've no idea the number of varieties of breads and crackers there are until a doctor fails to tell you which type to buy. Did the tea stay down?" A look of surprise crossed her face.

"It did." He nodded.

"Ginger tea. I bought plenty more," he noted as he unpacked the next bag, "Along with peppermint and chamomile should it not continue to work." His eyes flicked to her and rested there. "Think you might be up to trying a bite to eat?" She considered the question and shook her head.

"I don't know. I'm still queasy, but I'm hungry." He nodded.

"Then what say we begin you with a little more tea, and I'll put together an omelet, no cheese or milk, of course, and some toast and we'll see what happens? Hmmmm?" Hesitantly, she agreed.

They worked in tandem finding a home for the groceries as Remington set water on to boil. By the time he had the ingredients for omelet and toast on the counter, Laura perched nearby, cup of tea in hand. He spent prep, cooking time, and the meal filling her in on all he'd done in England while they were apart. Only after she managed to get down a slice of toast and a few bites of omelet, did they clean up and retire to the hammock on the terrace. They lay in silence for a bit, simply enjoying a weekend tradition they'd not had enough of lately.

"Laura," Remington said her name, daring to breech the quiet. He shifted his head so he could look down at her. "Tell me, where's your mind at on the news?" She tilted her head back to look at him.

"Stunned, scared," she said thoughtfully before a smile lifted her lips, "Happy, excited. You?"

"The same." He rolled her to her back, he on his side, and eased her shirt from under the waistband of her pants as she silently laughed. Laying his splayed hand upon her abdomen, he shook his head in awe. " _Our child,_ Laura. In there, right now."

"So it would seem," she agreed, laughing softly, ruffing his hair, then letting her hand rest there to play. She imagined she'd have to be prepared for many days and evenings ahead similar to this: her skin bared, his hand resting over where their child grew. For a man who used touch to connect, to feel truly present, he'd need the same with their child before it was even born.

"I want to know the whole of it, all you feel." He leaned back his head to look down at her, his eyes avid. "I don't imagine you can feel him or her yet, elsewise you wouldn't have been as shocked as I. But do you _feel_ differently?"

"Other than the stomach flu that was morning sickness, at least the last couple of days?" she asked. He nodded solemnly at her. Pursing her lips, she lifted her eyes upward, as she gave it serious thought. Her eyes met his again, as her fingers plucked at the ends of his hair. "My breasts have been tender, which I wrote off to the car accident." She frowned. "Although that would explain my right breast but not my left." She thought further, then shook her head. "Other than that, no. I feel exactly as I always do." Shifting carefully again, they spooned together, a hand still resting against her stomach.

"A year ago, Laura. Only a year ago we were trying to figure out how to move forward, both of us wanting to, both of us terrified of doing just that. And now? Married, a home—"

"A father," she interrupted to add. He nodded his head behind her.

"The Agency growing. A _child_ ," he said the last in quiet disbelief.

"And a lot of things to prepare, don't forget that, Mr. Steele," she reminded him. "A nursery here and at the Agency to plan and design. Cribs, car seats, changing tables, clothing, diapers to buy and who knows what else?"

"Most important among them all, names to choose," he reminded her, nuzzling the top of her head with his chin. Her brows raised in surprise as she tangled her fingers with the hand resting on her stomach.

"Names? It seems to me we already know the names, don't we?" she asked, thinking back to the days in Greece when nightmares still plagued her, and he'd shared his dreams of the future with her.

* * *

"… _ **named after the most supportive woman of your childhood and the only woman in my childhood that mourned the loss of me."**_

" _ **Olivia Elena…"**_

* * *

" _ **The maiden name of the woman who has inspired me since the day we first met…"**_

" _ **Holt… Holt Steele…"**_

* * *

"Names created in dreams, nothing more," he pointed out. She shrugged her shoulders against him. "Do you really like them?" he asked, his surprised pleasure dancing through his words.

"I do," she quietly confirmed, smiling as a bit of his Irish brogue weaved through his speech. "They're solid names, rooted in a great deal of meaning for both of us." She yawned deeply, as he bussed her on top of the head.

"Our son is noticeably lacking a middle name, in that case, Mrs. Steele," he commented. She nodded her head beneath his chin.

"I have an idea for that," she informed him as she settled herself more fully against him.

"Oh? Do tell." He lifted a brow in curiosity, while chuckling silently, recognizing in her movement, the sound of her voice, sleep was about to steal her away.

"You've honored all Daniel was to you with your middle name. I think our son's other grandfather, _his_ birthright, should be honored in his name," she hinted. He chewed on this for a moment, then eyes and face lit with a smile.

"Fitzgerald?" he ventured. She hummed her confirmation. "Holt Fitzgerald Steele," he tried it on for size. "With a name such as that, he'll have a lot to live up to, Mrs. Steele. Think he'll be up for it?"

"I do, Mr. Steele. I really do." She yawned again. "He will, after all, have his father to teach him how to not only live up to a name, but become greater than it." He stilled against her, his heart skipping then pounding at the words she'd spoken.

"My God, love, the things you say at times," he breathed.

"Only when they're true," she retorted sleepily, then sighed, and allowed herself to slip away.

Remington stayed close until he was certain sleep would cling to her, then carefully eased her to her back, before sliding from the hammock. Snatching an afghan off a chaise, he covered her with it, then departed the house. So much to do, so much to learn, indeed, and an idea of where to begin had formulated. He left the house with Laura none the wiser.

* * *

Remington had pulled a chair from the table over to sit in front of the hammock and with sketchbook in hand, whiled away the time until Laura woke from her extended nap. He'd already run his errand, had a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup warming on the stove, and a pot of ginger tea hot and ready for her when she woke. He'd thought to capture their reactions to hearing their child's heartbeat on paper while every nuance was still fresh in his mind. The rough sketch had long been complete, and he was now refining the piece with a bit of blending and refining of content. When she began to stir, he stood and retrieved a cup of tea for each of them from the kitchen

Laura's eyes blinked open, and, as was her habit, she quickly took in her surroundings. Stretching, she reached backward to run her hands through her hair, only to find it still back in the French braid from that morning. Her brows furrowed when her brain registered Remington was now sitting in a chair by the hammock and not laying with her in it.

"What happened to your desire to laze away an afternoon in the hammock, Mr. Steele?" He chuckled softly, offering her a hand down from the hammock, then led her towards one of the chaises. Reclining against it, he waited she settled herself between his legs, then handed her one of the cups of tea from the small table positioned between the two chaises.

"Even I, Mrs. Steele, find a four-and-a-half hour nap, absent… vigorous exercise," he leaned to the side a bit so she could see the waggle of his brows, "A bit excessive." She looked at him with undisguised surprise.

"I slept that long?" He nodded, then gave a look to her tea, a hint she should drink.

"You did. An indication, I'd say, that you've quite overdone it in the last week or so." She ignored the gentle reproach, and took a sip of her tea.

"What time is it?"

"A hair after four-thirty." She stood with cup of tea in hand.

"I need to call the office. I won't be long," she told him. He resisted the impulse to grab her hand and pull her back down, to assure her the office could take care of itself for one day. Instead, he stood to follow. Grabbing the handset from the wall mount, she crossed to the living room and sat down on the couch before dialing, then took another sip of the tea while waiting on the phone to ring on the other side.

"The Remington Steele Agency. How can I help you?" Bernice's voice wafted over the lines.

"Bernice, it's Laura," she announced.

"Hey, Laura," Bernice greeted, her tone moving from that of the professional to friend. "Feeling any better?" Laura gave the question then raised her brows in surprise. Not only had both servings of tea stayed down throughout the day, but so had toast and omelet.

"Actually, a lot better," she answered. "Listen, I need a full background done. I want everything that can be found. Juvenile record, adult, if there is one. Last known addresses. Relatives. Any stays in foster care. The whole gamut."

"Name?" Bernice inquired, while Remington watched with avid interest from his seat nearby Laura on the couch.

"Two names, actually. Violet Martin and Penny DesCoine." Remington's brows raised at that.

"Age?" Bernice returned. Laura gave that some thought. Minor couldn't have been any more than eighteen and no younger than fourteen when she and Remington had first made her acquaintance.

"Seventeen to twenty-two. That's the best I can do." At the Agency, Bernice scribbled the information on the pad in front of her.

"I'll get started as soon as we hang up. I'll see if Mildred can give me a hand since I'm still learning the ropes." Laura nodded her head.

"Good idea. Any messages for myself or Mr. Steele?" Setting down her pen, Bernice picked up a stack of pink papers.

"Several," Bernice confirmed, "But only two that really stand out. Monroe for either him or yourself. The next two stores are ready for inspection. For you, Joshua Meyerson called. He has some information for you. That's all he'd say."

"Alright, I'll call him as soon as I hang up. Is Murph there?" She was wondering if he'd made any progress on the Morton case.

"Left an hour ago," Bernice told her. "He has a lead on Carstairs' current address. Said if it pans out, the two of you can speak with him together on Monday."

"What do our schedules look like on Monday?" Laura inquired.

"I've cleared out _his_ schedule until one so he can inspect the last two installments, and get the lay of the land at the next stores," Bernice began to efficiently fill her in. "From one until three he's booked solid with new client meetings. Three until five, interviews with four of the applicants still standing. Your schedule the same during that time. For you, accountant at eight, ten-thirty until one left open for you and Murphy to work the Morton case. At one, an appointment with Johnson, two-thirty with Kellogg, to fill them in on the findings of their skip traces… both complete, by the way, files waiting on your desk. Mildred needs time with you to go over the asset trace she's been working on, so I've penciled her in from one-thirty until two-thirty, then at two-thirty a new client meeting, another missing person to locate." Laura nodded her head. They'd both hit the ground running Monday morning it seemed.

"Thanks, Bernice. I'll see you on Monday." Disconnecting the line, she stood again, to face Remington's curious look. "I'll fill you in after we call Meyerson," she told him. "And since I'm sure we'll both want to be on that call, let's go upstairs, okay? My files are next to the bed anyway." With a nod, he followed her with hand on small of her back.

"My schedule? What's it looking like?" She smirked at him.

"Let's just say, you'll want to get plenty of rest this weekend." He'd counted on as much, but for the sake of form, groaned in dismay.

"Really, Laura, is it too much to ask that a man be permitted to wade back into the grind after such along break?" he groused.

"You'll survive, Mr. Steele," she answered airily. "But I _suppose_ …" she drew out the last word, "If it's _too much_ for you, I _could_ take on some extra duties. Go in earlier, stay later." He was about to take her up on what was clearly a dare, when a thought occurred to him and he barked a laugh.

"Ah, I see. That's how this is going to work then, is it?" he asked, bemused. "Should I try to slow you down whilst carrying our child, you'll lob my head off. But, on the other hand, when it's to your favor, you'll use the need to get plenty of rest against me, eh?"

"All's fair," she answered jauntily, with a small laugh of her own.

Sitting down on the bed, Laura handed Remington the portable phone, then lifted handset from cradle on the phone next to the bed. Tapping in Meyerson's number, once the phone began to ring on the other side, she nodded at him, and he depressed the 'talk' button on the portable.

"Good afternoon. Law offices of Grant, Jacoby, Meyerson, Barcliff. How may I be of assistance?" announced the terse voice of a gravely throated woman.

"Laura Steele, returning Joshua Meyerson's call," Laura provided.

"Please hold." And before another word could be spoken, muzak was filling their ears.

"Chatty sort," Remington observed, dryly. He'd no sooner uttered the words than the line was picked up again.

"Mrs. Steele, thank you for returning my call," Joshua Meyerson's friendly tenor greeted her.

"Of course. Remington's on the line as well," she advised.

"Well, my contact has gotten back to me with the information you inquired after, but I'm afraid there's… confusion amid the ranks of the INS again," he forewarned.

"Oh, how so?" Remington asked.

"Lydia Van Owen aka Anna Simpson was released into the custody of Anthony Roselli, at the direction of a court order. The warden of the prison has told the INS after a cursory look at the order, it stated Van Owen was to be deported back to Switzerland where she would serve out her sentence in full." Meyerson took a breath then plowed ahead. "From what the INS is able to determine, a court order to that extent was never issued, Roselli was never assigned to Van Owen's case at any point, and a search of manifests both domestic and overseas fail to show Van Owen, by either name." His words confirmed Remington's biggest fears

"So, what you're saying to us is: Anna is out there, God only knows where, and at any moment could attempt to finish what she began," Remington summarized tightly, a hand raking through his hair.

"I wish I had better news," Meyerson apologized, sincerely.

"I dare say, so do we," Remington clipped. Laying a hand on Remington's thigh, Laura took over the remainder of the call.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Meyerson. We do appreciate it," Laura told him, graciously.

"Anytime, Mrs. Steele. Although, for your sake, I hope you won't need my assistance in the future. Have a good day."

Dropping her receiver on the cradle, Laura took the handheld from Remington's hands and depressed the 'end' button. Getting to her feet, she began unbuttoning her blouse as she walked towards the bathroom. He turned on the bed to watch her.

"Laura, we need to talk about this," he told her. She paused and looked at him.

"Not right this second, we don't," she disagreed. "We're home, together, no one is going to come after us here. The way I see it, the only thing I _need_ to do right now is to soak in a warm bath, preferably with my husband." She dropped her shirt to the floor pointedly, then reached for the hooks of her bra. "A wise man would take me up on the offer, because who knows how long it will be before I don't feel up to it again." With that, she slipped the bra from her shoulders and it followed her shirt to the floor.

He knew what she was about, distracting him, as it were. But no man could call Remington Steele a fool. He stood to follow, his fingers deftly freeing the buttons of his shirt as he went.


	8. Chapter 8: Questions & Some Answers

Chapter 8: Question and Some Answers

Laura leaned forward, humming, as Remington's fingers worked their magic on muscles she hadn't even realized were tight. Feeling a knot in her shoulders give way, she could actually feel the remnants of her headache slip away with it. She sighed in relief as he smiled behind her at the sound and at the hands which stroked the outside of his calves in appreciation.

"Your hands have been missed, Mr. Steele," she hummed, then sucked in hard, fast breath when he found another tender place.

" _Only_ my hands, Mrs. Steele? Mmmm?" he asked in answer to the compliment. Her hands stroked his calves again.

"No. Your legs have been missed, as well," she teased lightly. "Socks are simply not an adequate replacement for keeping my feet warm at night" Feeling a muscle relax underneath his thumbs, he chuckled as his sensitive fingers continued to ferret out tension.

"Ah, I see. Easily replaced by a masseuse and hot water bottle, am I then?" Her lips quirked as she swept his hands away from her body, then rested against the opposite side of the tub, beckoning him to follow with her eyes. Picking up the washcloth, she lathered it with soap while she waited for him to settle his back against her, resting his head on her shoulder.

"Oh, I don't know. My husband might take exception with my masseuse sharing a bath with me." He closed his eyes as the soapy cloth glided over a shoulder and down an arm.

"You can be assured he would," he agreed. "Tell me, how did you come up with two names for our murder-in-mind Minor?" Rinsing off his shoulder, she lathered up the cloth again, and turned her attention to his chest.

"Simple process of elimination, really, once we received the visitor logs," she shrugged. "Penny DesCoine was obvious. It was the second time through that I caught the second name. Violet Martin. Violet… Lily. Not exactly original." Swishing the suds out of the washcloth, she squeezed water over his chest, rinsing it. "I don't want to talk shop right now." He opened his eyes at that, unable to immediately recall a time Laura Holt was unwilling to speak business.

"Something else on your mind?" She lay down the washcloth and scraped her nails lightly up his chest.

"More like someone." She trailed her lips across his shoulder. He reacted viscerally to her touch, her words, the feeling of her soft lips against his skin. He concentrated on tamping down his body's instantaneous response. He had to be sure.

"Are you certain you're up for this, love?"

"To making love with you?" she asked. He nodded while his eyes fasted upon her hands as they streaked down over his abdomen, stopping just short of where he was already throbbing in want of her touch, while she lay her lips next to his ear. "I want you, Remington," she informed him in a husky breath, her breath whispering over his ear. Her head drew back and she watched in confusion as he stood and left the tub. Then was distracted by his glistening, lean body, her eyes skimming from shoulder to hips. Her eyes settled to a stop on a very vigorous display of his desire. Her tongue traced her lips in desire, and he drew in a deep breath at the heat in her eyes.

"In that case, there's only one place," he held out a hand to her, "I wish to have you after so long an absence: in our bed." Grasping her hand, he helped her from the tub, then quickly swiped a towel over both of their bodies before sweeping her up and in his arms and carrying her to their bedroom. Her lips and tongue sampled the rich flavor of his neck. Laying her down on the bed, he stretched out next to her, then leaned over to rain soft, lingering kisses across cheeks, forehead and eyes, before his lips settled over hers to tease. A splayed hand stroked from her neck to waist, making her arch into his touch while she hummed against his lips. With a smile, he ended the kiss, his lips slipping away to shower a jaw, then neck as her fingers wandered across his shoulders and burrowed into his hair.

Remington lavished Laura's skin with featherlight kisses, gentle nips, tender suckles and the occasional flick of tongue, paying homage to each dapple of color he'd been deprived of for far too long in his mind. He delighted in the occasional quiet laugh, far more often soft sigh which crossed her lips, as she squirmed with the pleasure his ministrations were bringing her. Every now and then, she'd gently stroke the skins beneath his ears, lightly graze her nails across his shoulders, grind her hips upwards into him, eliciting soft moans and quick intakes of air of his own. A reminder, he knew, that she was allowing him to take lead right now, but she might turn the tables whenever the urge struck her.

He shifted off her and slightly downwards, stretching out on his side, his head level with her breasts. He cupped a small globe in his hand, carefully testing at which point gentle pressure changed from pleasure to discomfort. A smile lifted the corner of his lips at the realization her breast already filled slightly more of his hand than it had a mere week ago. The smile caught her eye.

"What?" she asked, pressing up on her elbows and looking down at herself. It was a change, he decided, she should discover on her own.

"Merely observing the angry rainbow has at last departed, so I might enjoy each freckle in all its glory," he prevaricated, then distracted her by touching the tip of his tongue to a puckered peak. With a groan deep in her throat, she lay back on the bed, burying a hand in his hair, encouraging him to continue. He shifted back between her legs, intentionally allowing the proof of his desire to lay heavily against her. Hailing each peak with a deluge of sensation, he waited until she was writhing beneath him, then ground his hips against her swollen mound until she arched from the bed, crying out his name as her body shuddered against his.

Only when she lay limp and gasping against the bed did he shift lower again, trailing a string of kisses downward over ribs, pausing to lay lingering, reverent kisses against her abdomen. Her breath caught in her throat when he looked up through his lashes at her, bedazzled by the combination of pure joy and wonder lighting his eyes. Reaching for him, she urged him upwards.

"Come here." The whispered words trickled through the air, as he pushed upward until he rested against his elbows, his face hovering above hers. She drew light fingers around his ears and down his neck, before pressing palms to shoulders, urging him to his back. Slipping an arm around her slim waist, he rolled with her until she straddled his hips. His fingers trailed over her back, over her hips, until they caressed her stomach once more.

Laura's eyes met his, then dropped to watch Remington's hand, a deeply dimpled smile spreading across her face, before she leaned forward to press her lips to his. She kissed him with all the wonder and love she was feeling, briefly darting her tongue into his mouth for a sweet taste, before returning to his lips to caress them with her own. She abandoned his lips only when she felt the hand stroking her back shimmer, then skimmed her lips along a jaw before traveling leisurely down his throat.

She fairly worshipped his body, using her hands and mouth to speak to him in the language he trusted most, conveying through each touch how much he'd been missed, how much her heart treasured him. Only when he was left gasping her name, his hands grabbing comforter, pillows and her did she finally lower herself over him, enveloping him in her wet warmth. He nearly lost it then and there, and only through extraordinary will did he hold on, allowing her to ride, his hand slipping desperately between them to stroke the bundle of nerves between her folds.

"That's it, love," he encouraged, "Let it happen." The fingers of his free hand brushed across the sensitive tip of a breast and when she stilled, her thighs clenching as he felt her muscles contract around him, he drove his hips while she babbled his name. Only when she fell against him, did he roll them over again. He circled his hips, driving her upwards again. "Liom, mo chéadsearc, liom," he panted, as her legs wrapped around him and her fingers clutched at his shoulders.

Her hips began to move in tempo with his. Leaning down, he fastened his lips to the base of her neck, suckling, teasing. Her back arched at the sensation while she moaned low in her throat. He shifted slightly, hitting her more directly, bearing most of his weight on a single arm, freeing his other hand to caress a breast, taunt a nipple. His lips latched over her collarbone, suckling firmly. Her legs slipped downwards to tighten against his thighs. Her back arched from the bed again and he felt her begin to flutter around him. With a final thrust, he let himself go.

"Laura!" he shouted as he stilled above, throwing his head back as he found his release.

"Remington," she gasped.

"Laura," he called to her again before collapsing against her, burying his face in her neck.

Closing her eyes, Laura lazily stroked his back, trekked her fingers through his hair, while scattering kisses across his neck and shoulder as she fought to catch her breath and her body continued to quiver, ignoring his weight pressed against her tender breasts. Before she even realized what he was about, he'd left her embrace, to reach behind him and peel down the comforter and sheet. Sliding over, he held them aloft until she slipped under. Only after she was snuggled up against him, did he cover them. Fingers trailed over moist skin, and, at last, they slept.

* * *

Laura woke to an empty bed and dusk settling on the horizon, casting shadows throughout the room. Prying herself out of the bed, she showered and dressed before she made her way downstairs. Not finding Remington in his screening room as she'd expected, she turned on her heel to see if he was in the kitchen. She paused at the dining room table, eyebrows raising, as she spied the dozen or so books scattered across its surface. _The Complete Book of Pregnancy and Childbirth_ by Kitzinger, _Pregnancy, Childbirth and the Newborn_ , by Simkin et al, _Becoming a Father_ by the La Leche League, _The Fussy Baby_ by Sears, were but a few of the titles. _A man full of surprises, you are, Mr. Steele_ , she thought to herself. She selected a copy of _The Complete Book of Pregnancy and Childbirth_ before wandering out onto the terrace. There she found her wayward husband, lounging on a chaise, reading _What to Expect When You're Expecting._ Her soft laugh drew his attention. Moving the book to the side, he opened an arm to her.

"You've been busy," she noted as she settled herself between his legs. "When did you go out?" He flashed her a quick smile.

"While you napped this afternoon. How do you feel?" He been worrying their tete-a-tete may have been a bit much for her after the last week ills.

"Hungry, queasy," she shrugged, then lifted a hand back to caress a stubbled cheek, "Happy." He bussed her on the cheek, then nudged her upwards off the chaise.

"I can certainly help with the first, and can but hope I'm in some way partially responsible for the third," he told her raising her brows to her at the last. She eased herself up onto a barstool at the counter in the kitchen while he walked directly to the tea kettle.

"Learning anything?" she queried. His eyes moved to her then back to the cup of tea he was preparing.

"Some, some. I've some questions…" he trailed off. She rested her chin in hand propped by elbow on the counter and raised her brows in his direction.

"Oh? Such as?" He placed the cup of ginger tea in front of her then walked away.

"Do you plan to deliver naturally? Or would you prefer something to help with the pain?" he ventured as he pulled bowls from the cabinet. She frowned slightly at the questions.

"I don't know. I suppose I'd need to know the benefits and risks of each before I could say for sure," she told him honestly, "But my first inclination would be natural. I don't like drugs, you know that." He nodded his head and hummed his agreement, as he ladled soup into bowls. "What else?" Another flick of his eyes to her.

"Uh, do you intend to breastfeed?" The question earned another lift of her brows.

"I don't know. Again, I'd need to know more. I mean, I'm not exactly well-endowed, so I have to wonder if that will take the choice out of my hands." He suppressed a smile as he recalled his discovery in the afternoon. Laura laughed gaily, catching his full attention as he sat a bowl in front of her, then returned to get his.

"Care to share?" he inquired with a raised brow.

"Some time ago, I read men are drawn towards well-endowed women because they are genetically programmed to associate large breasts with ability to nurture their offspring. It would seem you failed spectacularly in that area," she smirked as he sat in the stool next to hers.

"Oh? How is that?" he asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

"Well, your tastes did run towards the large breasted Amazonian while you were… playing the field. Yet when you decide to settle down and procreate…" she trailed off, looking downwards at her chest, shrugging and laughing.

"Mmmm," he hummed, lifting a spoonful of soup to his mouth, before speaking. "Perhaps because despite how much I adore, not to mention lust after, that lovely little body of yours… including, I might add, those delectable breasts…" he indicated her chest with a spoon, "…It was the entire package I was drawn to. One could, in fact, argue my need to be with you was in answer to a much greater biological imperative."

"Sex?" she asked, laughing.

"To the contrary," he answered. "Survival of the fittest." Her brows raised again.

"Darwinism, I'm impressed. Care to elaborate?" she asked, truly curious.

" _If_ we're speaking purely from a scientific viewpoint…" he qualified, "You're the most intelligent person I believe I've ever known. Strong. Brave… foolishly so, at times." That notation earned him a half-hearted frown. "Resourceful. Healthy. Athletic. Self-sufficient. Remarkably talented. Attractive. All the traits, and then some, which promise the line will survive."

"Not to mention well-dressed, frugal and kind to furry animals," she commented lightly, self-conscious after his easy tallying of her virtues. He groaned aloud.

"Will I be reminded of that ill-advised list for the rest of my days?"

"We'll see," she answered vaguely, with a smile. "What about you? Do you have any preferences? Breastfeeding? Lamaze classes? Do you want to be in the room with me?" He pursed his lips in thought.

"In the reading I've done so far, it seems if _you_ do choose to breastfeed, supplementing with formula on occasion will do no harm. I'd like the opportunity to take my share of those late night feedings, to bond with our child." His eyes flitted to Laura, gauging her reaction. For her part, she wasn't surprised. She'd already assumed he'd be a very hands-on father. It was, in fact, a large reason why she'd decided to agree with his suggestion they begin 'stop trying not to.'

"Alright. And the rest?"

"I've not read enough to be able to comment on the second as yet. But on the last, can you have any doubt I'd wish to be with you? Hmmmm?" He tugged at his ear, while giving her a crooked smile. "Although, given what I _have_ read thus far, I may well come to regret that decision." This interested her.

"Oh, why's that?"

"It would seem as the woman nears delivery hapless husband becomes the target for his wife's ire," he answered, then lifted a single brow in her direction. "Although, I believe I'd be more up for the task than most since I've long been the target of your temper, eh?" He leaned over and bussed her on the cheek to soften the words. She gave him a lifted pair of brows of her own.

"Oh, I don't know," she drawled. "I seem to recall being told when Frances was giving birth to Laurie Beth, she made several promises about the likelihood of Donald losing several pieces of his anatomy and swearing he'd never touch her again." She tapped a finger to her lips. "Is it coincidence that was their last child?" Swallowing hard at her, he looked at her, dumbfounded.

"Frances? But she's so…"

"Domesticated?" Laura provided with a smirk. He stilled for a moment, then a wide smile graced his face as he stood to take their empty bowls to the sink.

"Ah, promises unfulfilled. I recall quite clearly their amorous interactions at your loft a few years back," he told her. "Not to mention us playing Mummy and Daddy in their stead last year so they could… reconnect."

"Speaking of parents…" she began as she slipped off the stool then nudged him out of the way so she could wash the dishes and he dry, as was their custom, "… That brings up things we haven't even begun to think about. Who do we want to be the godparents? Do we want the godparents to be the same as the guardians should anything happen to both of us? Wills. We'll need to make an appointment with an attorney. Trusts, I imagine, to consider. Do you even have a will? I never got around to one, personally." His eyes widened at her, and she held up a hand towards him. "Foolish, I know, you don't have to say it. I've heard it enough from Mother. Grandparents. Obviously my Mother and your Father are grandparents, but what about Catherine? And Marcos and Elena? They think of you as their son, and you think of them as your family, Oia your home. Frances and Donald will obviously be our child's aunt and uncle but what about Zeth, Christos and Melina?" Blinking, he turned and leaned his backside against the counter as she babbled on. "Travel. What do we even begin to know about international travel with an infant? A toddler? I imagine you'll want to make your annual pilgrimage back to Oia. Truthfully, so do I. Then London to visit Thomas and Catherine, that's a must." She frowned, as she absently handed him a bowl to dry. He took it while continuing to stare at her, jaw hanging open by now. "Will we ever even get back to Cannes to use the Villa? How about Ashford? We have the master suite there set aside for us. Will we get to use it, or are we just standing in the way of potential profit when they could be booking it instead? And the house in Vail? We can't take an infant on the slopes, so does it make sense to even—" She stopped speaking when Remington burst out laughing. "What?"

"Laura," he began, trying to speak the words around his laughter, then, unable to resist, gathered her in his arms, "I do love how that mind of your works." Wet, soapy arms held out from his sides, she frowned at the shoulder in front of her.

"I'm afraid you'll have to explain what's so funny," she told him. Releasing her, he clasped her face in both hands and drew her lips up to his. He allowed himself to savor the lips beneath his for a long moment, before drawing away, laughter still lighting his eyes.

"You do realize we've months to figure out all the details, and many of which you just named will sort themselves out across time, hmmm? It's seems we've already conquered the most difficult of tasks, at least in my eyes."

"Oh? And what tasks would those be?" He reached for her again, wrapping his arms loosely around her waist.

"Creating our child, for starters," he waggled his brows at her, and she laughed a breathy laugh.

"And?" He drew her closer, her hands sliding up his chest, then slipping around his neck.

"We've managed in only minutes to do what it seems to take most couples months to do: Decided on our child's name." She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and thought that over, a smile slowly growing on her face.

"I see your point," she finally answered while nodding her head. A hand slipped down over his shoulder to finger his collar. "And I'm willing to bet we could settle the matter of grandparents and godparents just as quickly."

"Oh? Have something in mind, do you?" he inquired, a grin dancing at the corners of his lips as he began to sway them slightly.

"I do," she confirmed. "It seems to me our child will be the only opportunity Catherine ever has to be a grandparent…"

"I'd think so, given what we've learned," he confirmed.

"And she _is_ married to your father, so it's only logical, if that's how she wishes to be seen by our child…"

"Agreed," he answered easily. "And Marcos and Elena?" he inquired, a hand lifting her hair over her shoulder.

"I think any child would be fortunate to have them as a Yaya and Pappous." She frowned slightly then added, "With their blessing, of course."

"They'll be besides themselves with joy, I'm sure," he assured her. "As am I."

"That reminds me…" she wriggled away from him. "I just have to get my purse."

"And godparents?" he called to her departing back. "Should I assume Donald and Frances would be your preference?"

"If you did, you'd assume wrong," she called back, before reappearing from the foyer and walking towards him. "As guardians, should anything happen to both of us, yes, but not as godparents." Her lovely brown eyes slanted at him then away. "My answer might surprise you," she forewarned with a smile, as she opened a drawer in the kitchen and removed a roll of tape.

"Why? What do you have in mind?" he asked as his brows knitted together while he watched her, wondering what she was about.

"Christos and Helen," she shrugged. "My sister and her husband as guardians, the brother you're closest to and his wife as godparents. It makes sense and ties our child irrevocably between all our families." She couldn't have stunned him more if she'd tried.

Then she did, when she took a folded piece of paper from her purse and taped it to the front of the subzero. Taking a step back, she stared at the printout of her ultrasound, nibbling at her lip and shaking her head in disbelief. Moving to her, he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind, resting his chin on top of her head. Her hands slid down his forearms before coming to rest on top of his own hands.

"It's amazing," she breathed.

"Incredible," he agreed. A smile lit her face, as they both stood transfixed, looking the first picture of their child.

"We did good, Mr. Steele," she finally said aloud.

"That we did, Mrs. Steele," he concurred, his voice filled with awe, "That we did."


	9. Chapter 9: Conned By A Con

Chapter 9: Conned by a Con

Normally, on the Friday's when Remington wasn't playing poker, he and Laura would indulge themselves with dinner out followed by either a movie, ballet or theater. Every once in a blue moon, she'd convince him to forgo the latter, and after batting her beautiful brown eyes at him, would talk him into a trip to Venice pier, where she'd indulge her enjoyment of cotton candy and he'd indulge himself in her. This Friday night, however, he'd willingly forgone poker since Monroe thought him to still be in London, and, given Laura's tumultuous tummy, they'd agreed to a movie in. In a nod to the news they'd received on the day, Remington had selected _Another Thin Man_ (William Powell, Myrna Loy, MGM, 1939). The third movie of the saga of Nick and Nora Charles, bantering husband and wife and crime sleuths extraordinaire, it happened to be the installment of the movie in which they became parents to Nick Jr.

Reclining with his back against the pillows on the couch, and Laura's head on his lap as she rested stretched out on her side, he absently fingered her silken locks of hair. She'd been silent for a while, a good indication she'd soon be asleep.

There was a time, not so long ago although then and now seemed a world apart, when he'd spent many a long, lonely evening watching _The Thin Man_ and imagining this is what it would be like between he and Laura. A rarity, it was, for a film from the genres of his liking to extend beyond that final kiss and the illusion happily-ever-after was in the making. When marriage was depicted, it was often because of the nefarious dealings of one spouse towards the other. _Gaslight_ (Charles Boyer, Ingrid Bergman, Joseph Cotton, MGM, 1944) – a man driven to hide his secret attempts to drive his wife insane before she can uncover it. _They Drive By Night_ (George Raft, Humphrey Bogart, Ann Sheridan, Warner Bros, 1940) – a woman conspires to kill her husband so she can be with the man she imagines she really loves. No, when he envisioned the future with Laura, duplicitous plots against one another were not only nothing he wished to imagine, but he knew were an impossibility as well.

No, they'd be Nick and Nora, he'd long ago decided… well, sans the overindulgence in alcohol. They'd dance, argue, play, banter, and be devoted to one another. 'Two sleuths, hurling themselves into the unknown, desperately seeking to find the truth behind a baffling mystery-,' as he'd once said to her three years before. The only exception being of course, he as Cary Grant fulfilling the role of Nick and she as a cross of the two Hepburns fulfilling the role of Nora. The fantasy had fil—

His idle thoughts came to an abrupt halt when Laura leaped from the couch, running with hand clasped over her mouth towards the bathroom. He followed quickly on her heels, gathering back her hair in the nick of time.

And, as her body convulsed and shuddered, Laura learned two lessons known by pregnant women since time began: Firstly, what tasted wonderful going down was not what that food tasted like coming up; and, secondly, there was absolutely no graceful way to vomit when the entirety of your stomach contents were determined to come up all at once. Panting, with tears streaming down her face, she sat backwards pressing her face against the cool porcelain of the tub. She watched as Remington flushed the toilet then ran a washcloth under the sink faucet, before wringing it out. Squatting down in front of her, he handed her the cloth, feeling utterly helpless.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly. She gave him a beleaguered look although her lips titled upwards in a small smile.

"I've sworn off noodle soup for life, but other than that, I'm fine… or at least I will be." She pressed the cloth to her face with both hands while releasing a slow breath. Dropping it from her face she held out a hand to him and he helped her to her feet. "I'm going to go get ready for bed. Finish watching your movie," she told him before laying cloth on the bathroom counter and leaving the room.

Laura detoured through the dining room to grab the book she'd planned to start reading, then went upstairs to their bedroom. Stripping down, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, used some mouthwash, then pulled on one of Remington's pajama shirts before climbing into the bed. Laying back against her pillows, she pressed the heels of her palms to her eyes, wishing she'd thought to bring a drink upstairs with her to soothe her burning throat, wondering again how she'd make it through two more months of this. She blew out a long breath and slung an arm over her eyes.

While watching _Another Thin Man_ with Remington downstairs, her thoughts had turn to Minor and Anna. In her opinion, it was only natural they had, after all, the very premise of the movie was a man believing someone was out to the kill him. When it came to Remington and herself, it was an inarguable fact someone was trying to do just that, at least in Minor's case. But what about Anna? Was she somewhere, lurking, even now? Did she have murder on her mind, blackmail or were they even on her mind at all? Was she on the lam, even now planning or executing her next con? She knew too little about the woman to even speculate.

She lifted her arm from her eyes, surprised as she heard Remington's footfalls on the carpet. Approaching the bed, as she pushed herself up into a sitting position, he handed her a cup and saucer.

"Tea with a spot of honey and lemon. I thought it might soothe your throat after…" He tapped his lips to her forehead before walking into the closet, stripping his clothes as he went. When he reemerged he was bare as the day he was born, thoroughly comfortable in his own nudity. Stopping at his dresser he tugged on the pair of pajama bottoms which matched the shirt she wore, then climbed into bed beside her. She took several more sips of the tea before setting it on the nightstand then stretching out across the width of the bed and lying her head on his lap, she claimed his hand in hers. She lifted her eyes to look at him.

"If I asked you to tell me about Anna, all of it, would you?" He tensed beneath her, even though he'd already come to the conclusion he'd have to share the whole of it when asked. Having accepted it didn't make it any easier now that the time had come. He nodded slowly then summoned up the courage, from where he didn't know, to say the words.

"I was twenty-six when I met Anna and bloody well full of myself," he began. "My…" he grimaced and lolled his head as he said the next words, "..professional pursuits… had been quite successful and word had spread that if something needed to be … retrieved… especially when held under tight security, I was the man for the job. Not that anyone knew precisely who _I_ was. Word would reach the street and, if interested, I'd contact the party directly under whatever guise I was using at the time. It was one such job that brought me to Monte Carlo. A ten-carat diamond valued at nearly five-hundred-thousand pounds, stolen in a home invasion in Florence and rumored to be traveling to Monte Carlo after a backroom deal." He shrugged. "I took on a couple of smaller jobs to bankroll my stay while awaiting its arrival, projecting the image of a carefree bachelor with too much time and money on his hands, only wishing to play." He sighed deeply, looked down at her and found her rapt attention on his hand, although he'd not a doubt she'd absorbed every word. "Monte Carlo, like most resort cities at the time, was rife with women seeking little more than a good time, in or out of bed." He tilted his head. "How was it you once described the early eighties?"

* * *

"… **the age of many vices, no convictions. A quick hop in the sack, no ties… hell, in some cases no names."**

* * *

"It could be said even more so about the late seventies, especially on the Cote d'Azur." He lifted a hand and covered his mouth, closing his eyes for several seconds. Finally, with a weary shake of his head, he dropped his hand and continued. "I went by Paul Fabrini in those days, having long before established his spendthrift, playboy persona. I'd been invited a party. I was in the mood for a liaison and what better than an evening of a little dance, good wine and frivolity followed by an enjoyable romp?" He stopped again then shook his head before abruptly slipping out from beneath her and leaving the bed to pace.

"What? What is it?" she questioned as she sat up, curling her legs to the side.

"Damn it, Laura. This isn't easy for me, that's 'what'. There's every chance once I tell you the whole of it, you'll never look at me quite the same way again. Or worse, when you look at me from here forward I'll see that same look in your eyes that was there from the time Anna entered our lives and every day thereafter until recently!" She frowned and shook her head at him.

"What look?" she demanded to know. Raking a hand through his hair, he stared at, before his shoulders drooped and he held up a defeated hand.

"That look that says maybe your instincts about me were wrong, that I wasn't the person you thought me to be, and those damned walls between us will go up once more." Closing her eyes, she lifted her fingers to her brow, kneading at it as she tried to find the words to convince him otherwise and realized there were none. This time it was her hand that dropped, deflated.

"I could sit here for hours telling you that won't be the case, but you won't believe it," she told him as much. "The _only_ way you'll believe it is by telling me then seeing _nothing_ will have changed. At least, not how I feel about you."

The silence lulled between them as he continued to pace for two long minutes. Looking ceilingward and scrubbing his face with his hands, he held them up in surrender then continued.

"When I first saw Anna, she was on the dance floor with another man; the man I now know, of course, to be Merleau. The way she held herself, with a confidence I seldom saw in a woman, her bearing almost regal as though only deigning to mingle with the peasants like the rest of us. It was…" he held a hand over his mouth briefly, then dropped it shaking his head. "I don't know the words to describe it, but she certainly caught my attention. And I, hers, I assumed, given the way her eyes wandered over me from head-to-toe then gave me a look that all but dared me to attempt to make her acquaintance." He let out a long breath and began pacing anew.

"I bided my time, waiting until her latest partner had left her side, leaving her alone to look out over the guests. I asked her to dance." His eyes flicked to Laura then away. "The song… in Club 10 which was playing when she arrived? It was the song we'd danced to that night, the song she knew at some point I'd equated as 'our' song, although I've no idea when that even came about. I'd never ascribed such to a song, a movie, a poem… not before or since. Until you and then with purpose…." he looked upon her with bleak, haunted eyes, before turning them away again, "… because I wanted that connection with you." He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"When the song ended, so did our dance. She walked away without so much as a glance back. It was a first for me. I'd never been left standing on the dance floor and, in truth, it intrigued me all the more, in both its insult and daring. Then, as I'd gone to get a fresh glass of wine, I found her room key in my pocket." He laughed without mirth. "Full of myself, yet again. I'd danced, I'd flirted, and it was I that would take the lady 'home', so to speak, that evening." He stopped walking, lost in thought.

"What happened?" Laura asked quietly. He turned to look at her, seeming to return from somewhere far away. He held two fingers to his lips while considering the questioned then resumed his pacing.

"I foolishly believed myself to be the seducer… the one who conquered. Given how she'd left me on the dance floor, I thought to… I don't know… make a point, I suppose. I waited for hours, well after guests had begun departing before arriving at her room. Of course, we ended up in bed together. It had been the whole point of the dance we'd been doing that evening, hadn't it?" He sat down heavily on the couch against the wall, and held his chin in a hand supported by an arm against his knee, unable to look at her for this next part. "She… knew things. Knew how to take a man hard and fast to the very edge, with only touch and leave him dangling there in sweet torture. It was… overwhelming… addictive even." _Especially for a man who needed touch to feel truly connected,_ she thought to herself.

"And the next morning I found myself yet again in an unfamiliar place: the one left, even if that leaving had been promised before it all began. It wasn't enough. I'd never experienced anything like it before. She'd bewitched me… so I pursued." Anxious hands tugged through his hair, before settling against his face as he leaned back and tilted his head towards the ceiling.

"Given I know it didn't end there, I gather she was receptive?" Laura prompted. Remington shook his head, and dropped his hands with a long sigh, before resuming his prior position.

"I don't know, I don't know," he answered quietly. "At the time, yes, it appeared she was quite receptive. We began seeing each other regularly. Not every night, but more often than not. Initially, only to share another of those intoxicating romps, she always walking away after. But she'd said enough during those times, for me to believe, in a very short time, she was interested in more than just a fling, and surprisingly, I found, so was I. By a month in I was as… dazzled… by her as I was the sex. I'd never met a woman before who was so bound and determined to live on her own terms, to write her own destiny. I didn't see it then. Still so full of myself, still recklessly believing I was the one in control, or at the very least shared equally in it. Only once I was hopelessly tied to her did… other things about her begin to truly surface."

"Such as?"

"We'd arrive at a party, together, and only later as she left with another man, did I realize she'd other plans in mind on the evening. Taking some man into her bed, seducing him with the very things she did to me, then, as her target slept, would escape with whatever bauble or trinket she'd set her mind on possessing." Unaware, so lost in his thoughts was he, that he'd turned to look at Laura, he spoke directly to her for the first time since the conversation began. "She was remarkably cruel about it, making her own point to me as well, though I failed to see it at the time. Anna Simpson belongs to no man. She'd kiss whatever man was on her agenda that evening, even fondle him in my full view, all the while giving me a look that clearly said just that. Then she'd take them off to her bed, and the next morning arrive at the room I held, bragging about her success, showing off whatever it was she'd lifted." Standing, he again began wearing a path in their carpet.

"Ah, Laura," he said, his voice fraught with frustration. "She was little better than a prostitute, trading her body for whatever it was she coveted. Yet, I couldn't admit that to myself, not then. She'd mock me, in a manner of speaking, finding my 'provincial' views amusing, would tell me monogamy between a man and a woman was little more than a myth and impossible to obtain. Despite her actions, I found myself constantly wondering if this was it, was I in love with her? Why else would I put up with it? Why else would I allow her to convince me she was doing it for us, for the life we'd soon have together. Contributing to our 'nest egg' she called it," he laughed harshly. "Why would I take her back into my bed the morning after another man had had her if I wasn't?"

"It wasn't long before even the sex changed." He'd lost himself in the story, the words now just falling from his tongue freely, unmonitored. "Oh, she still used those devilish, intoxicating tricks of hers, but now to make the sex more… carnal. Bordering on violent, even, I'd dare say." He looked at her, his eyes begging her to believe the next. "I never left a mark on her, not like she did me. I can't tell you how many times, afterwards, I'd find my skin so deeply scored by her nails I'd be left bleeding, bit so hard, I could actually count the teeth marks. I'd find myself, after those encounters, repulsed by her, by myself for having allowed it to happen. Many times I vowed to walk away, and each time, she drew me back in with her words… tender words, promises of how it would soon be, by the way she touched me, allowing me to believe that she loved me."

"At some point, I don't know when, though no doubt by no one's fault but my own, she set her sites on my work. Oh, we had the devil of some fights over that. She wanted to accompany me, 'help me', but I wouldn't hear of it." He looked at Laura again. "You know better than most how quickly things can fall apart. The Five Nudes, the Masters, the Jennings diamond."

"I do," she concurred, nodding her agreement.

"I didn't… trust her, not on a heist. She was too impulsive, reckless." He blew out a sharp puff of air. "We'd made plans to go away together. Things would be wonderful once we'd left Monte Carlo, that's what she'd assured me. My take on retrieving the diamond would be fifty-thousand pounds. A good sum to get us started off in the right way without my having to nip into the funds I'd squirreled away. I had it planned for that night, the night we were to leave." He laughed sardonically. "Oh, we had a row about my refusing to allow her to come along. She promised if I didn't take her, she'd contribute in her own way, on her terms. I knew what it meant: taking yet another man into her bed, robbing him after. It made me sick, knowing that she'd carry through and do just that, but not enough to make me put my proverbial neck on the line. She went about her business and I, mine. After I'd retrieved the diamond and collected my fee, I returned to my room to wait for her. Despite knowing what she was doing, would have done before returning to me, I'd every intention on following through on our plans to leave, believing that once we were away from all of it, we'd finally find peace."

"But she never arrived…" Laura prompted again.

"I found out by way of her obituary in the morning paper. Anna Simpson, not only dead but having left behind a husband, Merleau." He stopped stalking about the room to rub at his face again and peer at the ceiling as though it held all the answers. "I'd compromised so much of myself for her by that point, what was one more thing, eh? I'd allowed myself to be drawn in. Had broken my longstanding promise to myself to never believe in another. I'd given nearly all my trust to the woman, when she'd done nothing to earn it. Why not make sure I broke the one last vow still intact: to never usurp on the territory of another man? I'd been bedding a married woman straight along, planning to run away with her even."

"But none of that really mattered in the end. The only thing that did was she was dead, at least in part due to my own hand. Had I taken her with me the night before as she asked, we might be behind bars, but she'd at least be alive."

"Remington—" Laura broke in, taking to her knees on the bed and stretching a hand out to him. He held up a hand, palm facing her, and shook his he adamantly in the negative.

"The guilt absolutely gutted me. For the first time in my life, I lost myself in drink for a while. Sought refuge away from the memories with friends in various locales across the world. It took a few months, but I pulled myself together. Made those vows anew: no entanglements, trust no one but myself, and, by God, never to believe in love. I focused fully on my work, taking on bigger, bolder assignments each time. Maybe hoping I'd get caught, I don't know. If I were, maybe it was kismet's way of atonement." He turned to look at her again while rubbing at his chin. "But instead, it brought me to you."

"When Anna appeared here, alive, I won't deny I was overwhelmed, confused even. The night I went home and found her waiting in my apartment it wasn't only relief I felt that she hadn't died but a form of absolution as well. And, however brief it might have been, memories of the good times overcame me. Despite the rest, there had been some truly wonderful times mixed among the bad. But even then, it didn't take long for me to recall the rest of it and put together pieces of the puzzle I'd been blind to then."

"Like what?" she asked.

"My name to start. In time, I did share with her those aliases, though not that I hadn't the slightest idea what my real name was. To her, I was Paul Fabrini, or at least I thought, given it is the identity I went by at the time. But never once did she call me by it, not even in.." he waved a hand at the air "… the throes of passion. I was always nothing more, or less, than 'darling'" _She couldn't have come up with a more damaging way to cause you harm, even if she'd known,_ Laura ranted to herself.

"What else?"

"The manipulations. I'd gotten into a bit of a scuffle one day while in Anna's company. An acquaintance, knocking about a woman less than half his size. I had a bit of a go at him and made it clear it'd be in his best interest that I not discover he'd attempted a repeat with the young woman ." He rubbed at his face.

"I see," she could only say. There was no explanation needed. She knew all too well that Anna had identified the protectiveness which was inborn to him in order to manipulate him, nearly to the point of murder.

"I'm sure you do," he acknowledged, wearily sitting on the side of the bed and raking his fingers through his hair. "When I confronted her at Patton's estate, she'd the audacity to claim she'd been unable to tell me she was alive because I would've discovered she was nothing more than a 'swindler,' as though she'd led such a virtuous life while we were together." He laughed sadly. Sensing he was winding down, she clasped him softly by the shoulders and eased him back until he lay down on the bed. Stretching out next to him, she faced him, and dared to run a hand soothingly through his hair. To her immense relief, he didn't flinch away from her, but briefly closed his eyes, before opening them again and staring at her, intently.

"Anna knows… things, Laura." She nodded slowly when he voiced her fears aloud.

"What things?"

"My aliases, of course. A couple of small jobs I performed while in Monte Carlo as well as the diamond." She allowed herself to feel a little relieved in that.

"Which can no longer harm you as Paul Fabrini's record is not only clear, but he doesn't even exist," she pointed out.

"True, but Remington Steele does," he countered.

"Whose passport never shows him having been in Monte Carlo," she argued back. "What else?"

"You," he answered, picking up a strand of her hair and fingering it. "She knows about you. She'll know you're my Achilles heel," he answered, giving voice to his greatest fear.

"And you mine. Unless I'm mistaken, she blames both of us for ruining her scam, for putting her behind bars," she pointed out, logically. "We can't do any more than we're already doing, Remington. We know Minor is out there gunning for us. We take our normal precautions." Rolling to his back he scrubbed at his face.

"It's what you always feared most, isn't it? My past coming back to do harm? If anything happens to you or our child because of what I've done, I won't be able to live with myself." With a shake of her head, she turned off her lamp then wriggled herself over to close the space between them, and lay her head against his chest.

"We _all_ have a past. My fear of your past had far less to do with it visiting, than it taking you away." Her hand settled against his side, began to stroke, trying to get him to relax. "My own past has come to visit, in the form of DesCoine, now his daughter. But you've never held me accountable for it."

"It's not the same, Laura," he answered irritably. "This is not a job coming back to haunt us."

"You're right, it's not. It's worse. She conned you and when she was done with you, first she left you in shambles and then the next time around planned to leave you for dead. It's much worse." This earned a rich laugh from him.

"Conned me? Laura, the woman never got a bloody thing from me. Might I also add the old colloquialism, 'never try to con a con'? There's a reason for that saying, you know." She hummed.

"I think you were too close to see what was happening, still are even now," she said thoughtfully. That thought irritated him and he fought the impulse to place distance between them.

"Care to explain that little gem?" he clipped. She sighed with a little frustration of her own.

"You said it yourself. When you first saw her you were 'bloody well full of yourself.' A woman who uses sex to get what she wants can spot that type of arrogance in the blink of an eye. Arrogance is, by itself, a weakness and for that reason alone can be exploited. She played yours to perfection, I should know," she commented thoughtfully, absently thrumming her fingers on his chest.

"Laura," he said warningly, taking offense at her comparing herself to Anna on any level.

"Just listen to me. In those first couple of months of our association, I think I made myself clear enough that I wanted to go to bed with you…"

* * *

 _ **"Let our passions erupt into something outrageously fulfilling-"**_

 _ **"You mean hop in the sack?"**_

 _ **"Little crude, but- to the point."**_

 _ **"Love to."**_

 _ **"Well then?"**_

 _ **"But I can't."**_

* * *

"You did," he agreed.

"But I knew the _only_ thing keeping you around was the fact I _wouldn't_. I even said as much to Bernice at the time."

* * *

 _ **"You know, it's not just the free ride that keeps this clown around. It's the challenge. I'm probably the only woman he's ever met who didn't tumble right into bed with him."**_

* * *

"I was a challenge: a woman who wouldn't just tumble into bed with you when you turned those rather lethal charms on her. I used that arrogance against you, because I wanted to keep you here," she shrugged. "It's not all the different from what Anna did. She left you standing on that dance floor alone because she knew it would draw you in." She sighed. "And after you'd taken the bait, she identified one vulnerability after another to exploit, not only making sure she was the one that retained control, but to bind you to her."

"I think you're attributing far more to this than there was," he disagreed.

"Am I? The first time to two of you hit the sheets, she would have recognized you're not a man who would appreciate a coupling that left either of you with injuries. By nature you're a…" she searched for the right word, "… a sensualist, prone towards gentle touches, soft caresses. Even nine months after we've crossed that line, you're still inclined to apologize when our sex life takes what is, in your eyes, maybe a little _too_ robust of a turn. She used her skills in the bedroom to bind you to her in a way, then once she had, she changed the rules. She would have known by then that even though you were the one left bleeding and bruised, you'd feel guilty, sickened even. And then she'd twist things even further by using the two things you need most against you: touch and to be loved without qualification. It was a sick game, Remington, but a game, none the less."

"For what purpose?" he demanded to know, even as the truth of what she was telling him was taking root. "I've already told you she never got a damned thing from me." She shook her head against his chest.

"You won't like it," she warned.

"Because I've enjoyed so much as a moment of this conversation tonight already?" he countered.

"I think you were her contingency plan. If everything went south on the con she was working with Merleau, there you were at the hotel, waiting to depart to places unknown." He nodded his head slowly at the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that she was right.

"And LA?" he asked tightly.

"Merleau was blackmailing her, that much I believe is true. She needed to silence him." She tilted her head back to look at him in the darkened room and lay a hand upon his cheek, knowing the words she was about to say would wound.

"And since I now lived in LA where Patton resided and knew her not to be Lydia Van Owen, I needed to be eliminated as well," he supplied, saving her from saying it.

"Yes," she agreed quietly, shifting her hand back to his side.

"Daniel will be having a bloody good laugh at me from his grave for this," he noted with a great deal of bitterness.

"Did he know Anna?"

"He met her, once. Told me he didn't trust her as far as he could toss her, which wouldn't have been very far. Caused a bit of a breech between us for a time," he confessed.

"Why? He certainly had his issues with me, but it didn't cause a rift between the two of you?" she asked, sensing he needed to leave the subject of Anna behind. He shifted beneath her, getting more comfortable beneath her.

"Ah, it wasn't that he never trusted you but because he knew he'd never draw me back into the game again. At least not so long as there was a chance for us. I couldn't very well fault him for that." She smiled at the thought, then laughed as another came to her.

"Can you imagine how he'd feel now? Not only have I wedded and bedded you, but have turned you in to a father-to-be as well." He chuckled lightly.

"Something tells me we'd have seen a lot more of him here in LA… sufficiently enough to drive you batty, at least." He frowned when she suddenly bolted upright. "What is it?"

"His letter. We forgot his letter again," she answered, scooting towards the opposite side of the bed to get up. His arm wrapped around her waist and wrangled her back to him.

"Tomorrow. I've had enough for one day, and _you_ …" he stressed the last word, as he wrapped an arm around her slim frame and spooned his body around hers, "…need your rest." She smiled as his hand slipped under the shirt she wore to rest against her stomach.

"I've had two naps today," she protested for form's sake.

"Which I suspect you'll be doing a lot more of in the weeks to come." He nuzzled his chin against the top of her head.

"Speaking of which, I'd like us to wait on announcing we're expecting a child, at least for now. I want us, _just us_ , to be able to enjoy this for a little while before all the well-meaning advice, all the questions begin." He smiled over top of her head.

"Before your Mother…" he let her finish the thought and would have laughed openly had he seen the pained expression on her face.

"Yes," she breathed, drawing the word out. "Not to mention Frances. Just the thought of them hovering. If Frances finds out I have morning sickness, she'll stalk me, suffocate me, all the while giving advice and recommending I stay in bed. I'm already getting a headache just _thinking_ about it!" He chuckled silently behind her, drawing her full attention. "It's not funny!" That chuckle turned into a full out laugh. It was the first time in his memory Laura Holt Steele had given in to a full-out whine.

"Of course, it's not," he gasped. Flipping to her back, she glared at him.

"Mr. Steele, by some miracle, in the eight-and-a-half months we've been married, you haven't been sent to the couch for the night. That's about to change," she warned. He held up a hand in defense of himself.

"Laura, do you realize you've just admitted to being afraid of a woman who once imagine sparrows as vampire bats, who saw UFO's hovering over Tarzana?" Helpless to stop it, a fresh new round of laughter shook his body. She pursed her lips, trying to suppress her own laughter.

"Be careful, buster, or I might suggest to Frances that you're in need of some suggestions for meals which will decrease the likelihood of me getting sick," she warned with a lift of her brows. His laughter came to an abrupt halt and he eyed her warily. "I'm sure she'll be here nightly, giving you pointers, advice—"

"You would, wouldn't you?" he accused. She lifted her brows at him in the dim room.

"You'd better watch your step. I'm sure Mother would be more than happy to move in for the first month or two after the baby's born if I expressed concern that we might be overwhelmed…" He swallowed hard at the mere thought.

"Lau-ra…" he warned.

"Who's afraid now?" she asked jauntily, before laying her head on his chest and sprawling partway across his lean frame.

She fell asleep with a smile still on her lips and he? Laughing softly.

(TBC)


	10. Chapter 10: Business As Usual

Chapter 10: Business as Usual

Saturday afternoon saw the Steele's happily embroiled in their own pursuits. Laura sat at her piano, her fingers elegantly dancing across the keys, paying homage to Chopin, as the last strands of Nocturne in E-flat major, Op.9 No.2 floated in the air before she flawlessly transitioned first to Prelude No.15 in D Flat Major, Op 28 and then to Nocturne No. 20 in C-Sharp Minor. A sure sign she was thinking and digesting all she'd read that morning and what she should expect in the upcoming months.

Among those things, morning sickness, for certain. Remington had risen before her and was just setting down a tray next to the bed, laden with hot ginger tea and dry wheat toast when she vaulted from the bed for the bathroom. He'd followed behind, once again holding her hair and soothing a hand over her back, then offering her a cool, damp washcloth when she slumped backwards to sit, leaning her back against the counter drawers.

"You don't have to do this you know," she'd panted through the cloth pressed to her face.

"Do what?" With a hand she waved in the general direction of the toilet she'd just been leaning over.

"This. It's bad enough one of us is miserable, there's no need to subject yourself to it as well." A smile toyed at the corner of his lips.

"Ah, you say that now. But should I not keep your company in your misery, I can all but be assured sometime down the line you'll be griping endlessly about how I've not suffered through any ills of the pregnancy," he answered lightly.

"I won't—" she began to disagree.

"Alright, then how about we simply agree it gives me the rare opportunity to offer you some comfort and, in doing so, also honors those vows we exchanged, particularly as they refer to 'in sickness and in health,' hmmmm?" He grasped the hand she held out and helped her to her feet. Bracing an arm against the sink, she rinsed her mouth by way of handfuls of cool water before reaching for her toothbrush.

"I don't think I can do this for two more months," she whispered, her shoulders slumping as she admitted to what she viewed as weakness.

"And if I have any say in the manner, you won't have to," he assured her. "We found yesterday you were able to keep down a bit of egg and toast, certainly the tea. Noodle soup, contrary to lore, has proven not to be the remedy for ills." She eyed him as she brushed her teeth, then rinsed the brush and tapping it on the side of the sink, set it into their toothbrush holder.

"So we're going to experiment?" she questioned, the suggesting appealing to her logically ordered mind.

"In a manner of speaking, yes. This morning: ginger tea and dry wheat toast. Should they stay down, in a couple of hours I'll whip up another omelet and see if we meet with the same success as yesterday." She nodded her agreement and returned to the bedroom. Climbing into bed, she reclined against the headboard as he lifted the tray to sit over her lap, then joined her from the other side of the bed.

"Nothing more substantial for yourself?" she questioned over the rim of her tea cup, eyeing the two plates of dry toast and the matching cup of tea in his hand.

"This will do for now." He wasn't about to admit he didn't have it in him to feast before his wife who was unable to keep anything down. Sitting down his cup, he tugged at an ear while pressing two fingers against his lips in thought. "Laura, I know we agreed last evening not to tell anyone of the news quite yet, but—"

"Remington—" she began warningly, eyes narrowing. If he suggested they seek advice from Frances, she might well put her hands around his throat, and suspected any jury of women would see it as justifiable homicide.

"Just hear me out. You can always refuse and I won't say anything further on the matter," he cut in. "I'd like to ring up Elena this morning, _just Elena_ …," he emphasized, "… swear her to secrecy and all that. I seem to recall when Calista was pregnant with her first she was much the same as yourself and Elena had gathered any number of recipes for foods she guaranteed would conquer the morning sickness."

"Did they work?" she asked, eyeing the dry toast while resisting the urge to shrivel her nose at it. _Let's face it, Laura, you've been spoiled by his cooking._ _This_ _does not qualify as food by comparison_ , she admitted to herself. Remington gave her a shrug.

"Must have as I don't recall her being poor of health the remainder of my stay that round." She gave his suggestion some thought, but another glance at the unappetizing toast sealed the deal.

"As long as you _swear_ her to secrecy. If mother or Frances finds out she knew before them, I'll never hear the end of it." He glanced at the alarm clock. Five-thirty Greece time. Standing he circled the bed, then patted her hip urging her to scoot over, sitting beside her again once she had. Picking up the handset he tapped in twelve digits, then settled it against his shoulder. "You have their number memorized?" she asked, surprised.

"Laura, they've had the same number since I was a child. I should hope so. And even I can remember '30' as the international code," he scolded lightly.

"Here I thought you only memorized the number of your favorite restaurants and your tailor," she retorted with a smirk. Before he was able to deliver a proper rebuttal, the phone was picked up on the other end.

"Kalispera, Elena," he greeted, a smile lighting his face at whatever Elena had said in return. "Se epithimisa, as well… Right here next to me…" He looked at Laura and addressed her. "Elena and the family send their love. Says we must come for a visit very soon."

"She doesn't know we'll be there in June for Roselli's trial?" she wondered.

"Slipped my mind," he answered her then returned his focus to the phone. "As Laura just reminded me, we'll be there in June." He pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, chuckling at Elena's enthusiastic response to the news, then listened briefly to the next bit. "Elena would like to know if we wish to make use of the old house again this stay?" Laura's face lit up at the suggestion. Despite the memories of Roselli's reappearance there, she loved the small house in the Cyclades where he'd spent part of his childhood under the loving care of the Androkus family. She nodded her enthusiastic confirmation. "It seems we would," he relayed to Elena. "Elena, I've called as we're in the need of your assistance. But I'm afraid I need your word that the news I'm about to impart will not go beyond yourself, at least for now."

"Xenos, you worry me," Elena worried. "Is all not well? Is something befoul at hand again?" The motherly concern made him smile.

"No, nothing such as that. Quite the opposite, in truth," he answered, quelling her fears. "Still, I'm afraid I'm not permitted to share the news unless I'm assured it will go no further than yourself." She clucked her tongue, letting him know how she felt about his statement.

"Με απογοητευεις… You disappoint me with such a request. Έχω αποκάλυψε ποτέ τα μυστικά σας… I have never revealed your secrets. You know this, my Xenos," she admonished. He squirmed uncomfortably, like a ten-year-old taken to task.

"Λυπάμαι. Έχω μόνο τον βαθύτατο σεβασμό για σας, σας γνωρίζουμε ότι," he answered, apology lacing his words, then remembering his wife next to him looking on with a great deal of curiosity, he repeated the apology again in English. "My apologies. You know I mean no disrespect. It's only that we've not told anyone yet."

"Xenos, mοιραστείτε τα νέα σας. Tell me," she prompted. Closing his eyes, he nodded, then let out a slow breath.

"Laura's with child," he shared, a smile lighting his face as he reached for Laura's hand. When she weaved her fingers through his, joy sparkling in her eyes at the words he'd spoken, the smile only widened further as he drew their joined hands to his mouth and skimmed a kiss over her knuckles. On the other end of the line, Elena drew in a sharp whoosh of breath.

"Ενα μωρό!" she gasped. "Our son, 'eνας πατέρας επιτέλους... a father! Our Laura, mια μητέρα. Δεν υπάρχει μεγαλύτερη χαρά! Είναι το μόνο που μπορώ ποτέ ονειρευτεί για εσάς. Για μεγάλη αγάπη για να σε βρω! It's all I've ever dreamed of, my Xenos. For such happiness to finally find you."

"I know, Elena, I know." He turned to look at his partner and wife when she tugged at his sleeve, eyeing him with open curiosity. "Thrilled would be an understatement," he filled her in.

"Xenos, give the phone to our Laura, I will tell her myself," Elena scolded in his other ear.

"Elena wishes to speak to you," he told her with a shrug, handing her the phone.

"Elena? It's Laura," she said into the receiver. Her eyes blinked, then widened as Elena spoke.

"Our Laura, mια μητέρα. The joy Xenos has given me at the news this morning!" Elena spoke rapidly. "Είστε μια ευλογία για όλους μας. You are a blessing to us all, my Laura. Δώσατε τον γιο μας πολύ αγάπη και τώρα ένα παιδί. You have given our son much love and now a child! With you he has found all the happiness we've ever prayed for him to have. Our son will be a splendid father!" Laura blinked her moist eyes several times before speaking.

"Thank you. He will be. You're absolutely right," she agreed, as Remington now watched her with a good deal of curiosity.

"How far along are you? Are you well?" Elena inquired, concern in her voice.

"Eight weeks or so, from what we were told yesterday. For the most part, I'm fine. Xenos said you might have some suggestions on what I can eat to help with the morning sickness?" Unseen, Elena nodded her head as she crossed the kitchen to another counter and drew her recipe box towards her.

"Yes. Yes. Meals and treats which have done well by the women in our family," she answered.

"I'm going to give the phone back to Xenos," Laura advised, then handed it off to Remington.

The pair discussed numerous suggestions ranging from sugared ginger drops to banana oat muffins to lemon soup with chicken and orzo, ultimately agreeing that after the family left, Elena would copy and fax all her recipes from the shipping office to the Agency as no one would be there over the weekend. Remington finally hung up the phone amid Elena's moist-voiced well wishes and after numerous promises by him to keep her abreast of how Laura was fairing with the family recipes.

With no signs of the tea and toast planning to revisit, Laura had finally crawled from bed and taken a shower, dressing in a pair of rolled cuff shorts and a sleeveless blouse then had pulled back her hair in a simple ponytail in anticipation of the predicted mild day. She'd found herself frowning several times, as she tried on one bra after the next, swearing they felt snugger than they once had, uncomfortably so, as they pressed on tender breasts. She promised herself a date with one of the books Remington had brought home.

They'd wiled away the morning lounging in the gently swaying hammock, lying on opposite ends as they each read the book of their selection. Remington couldn't help but smile when he glanced up at one point and found Laura eyeing her breasts, returning to the book, then eyeing her breasts again before her eyes widened. Lying her head back, she closed her eyes and uttered a few muffled curses. Her skin flushed when she opened her eyes again and found him peering at her with amused interest.

"Has something caught your attention, love?" he asked in a casual tone that instantly alerted her he knew exactly what had. She eyes him speculatively.

"Oh, I think you know _exactly_ what's caught my attention," she observed, receiving only a hitched brow in response. "How long have you known?" He gave her an infuriatingly casual shrug of a shoulder.

"I may have noticed… something… had changed… while we… indulged in one another yesterday afternoon." Her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"And you didn't say anything?" she clipped.

"I considered it," he admitted while trying to suppress the smile which might find him lying supine upon the pavers beneath the hammock. "Then thought better, believing it best if you discovered the new… development… on your own."

"You realize this means I'm going to have to go out this weekend and _shop_ , don't you?" She caught the smile twitching at his lips, and smacked him on the leg for his troubles. "Mr. Steele," she ground out.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized, holding up a hand in deference, while choking back a laugh. "It just seems you'd have also realized you'll be doing quite a bit of that for yourself in the months to come… sooner than later, I would guess." She paled a bit at that statement.

"Why is that?" This time both brows lifted.

"You're but a wisp of a thing to begin with, Laura," he held up a finger before she could protest, "A comment on your physical stature, nothing more," he qualified. "From what I've read so far, you _could_ begin showing in as little as two to three weeks from now. At the same time, it could be a couple of months. But at some point, not far down the line no matter when it happens, you won't fit in into those surprisingly enticing little suits of yours." The idea secretly thrilled her, but she wasn't going to admit as much to him, not yet. Easing off the hammock, he leaned down and bussed the top of her head. "I'm going to whip up those omelets since you seem to be fine so far."

After brunch, they'd parted company. Now, Remington sat on the terrace, sketchbook in hand, as the music created by Laura's talented fingers trickled outside to his ears. He'd already put the final touches on the sketch of them at the hospital the day prior and was now working on a piece he'd every intention of adding to the sketches above the fireplace in their bedroom. Laura shown only from ribs to hip, shirt open, his hand upon her still flat abdomen. He found the idea of creating a sketch a week showing the progress of their unborn child's growth while in his or her mother's womb titillating, and had embarked upon the first of the series. He suspected Laura would be equally enamored of the idea after he presented his first few works, and made a note to himself as he drew to have her bare slightly more of her abdomen so he'd accurately be able to depict the swelling of her body as her pregnancy lengthened.

Soft shadows cast across the terrace served as a reminder the day was growing long. Closing the sketchbook, he laid it on the dining room table on his way to the piano, where he leaned down to press his lips to Laura's neck. Fingers pausing, she looked up at him with a smile.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked.

"I am," he nodded. "Yourself? How do you feel?"

"The same as yesterday afternoon: Slightly nauseated but not overwhelmingly so," she answered as she closed the fallboard, then dropped the sheet music inside the bench she'd been sitting on. "Well enough that…" she drew her fingers down his front, "… I can't seem to take my mind off another nap before dinner." She lifted her brows and brown eyes lit with desire met twinkling blue ones. Leaning down, he sampled her lips.

"Mmm, yes, well let's hope that feeling of good health holds until after we return, eh?" Laying a hand on the small of her back, he guided her towards the front door. "Porsche or Auburn do you think?"

"Porsche, if we're going to the market." Plucking her keys off the credenza, he guided her out the door.

* * *

"I've been thinking, Mr. Steele," Laura began as she and Remington rode the elevator towards the eleventh floor of Century Towers. He did a double take and settled his eyes upon her.

"Why is it I always experience the most unsettling feeling when I hear those words cross your lips, Mrs. Steele?" he pondered warily.

"In light of recent events, neither the Auburn nor the Porsche will soon be conducive to our new lifestyle." He winced visibly at what she was sayin.

"That's why," he deadpanned. "Surely you're not suggesting we sell?"

"Do we have a choice?" she challenged. "Or are we going to simply _toss_ the baby, car seat and all, into the trunk when we have to go somewhere?"

"Certainly not. Strap the car seat to the top of the trunk perhaps." He held up his hands when she looked at him as though he'd lost his mind. "Just kidding. Just kidding. But the Auburn? It's so sleek, so elegant, it… it… it… speaks to the image we've fought so hard to convey to the public." He became increasingly desperate when she rolled her eyes at the last. "It's the _Auburn_ , Laura. Selling it would be akin to… to… to… modeling the renovation of the offices after Cranston's taste in décor, to… to… to… our arriving at a benefit in t-shirts and jeans, to—" This time it was she who held up a hand as they walked down the hallway.

"Save it," she cut him off. "I'm not suggesting we sell the Auburn, but the Porsche has to go. And we'll _both_ need an appropriate vehicle for baby Steele to be transported in." He looked up at her from where he was stooped down unlocking the Agency doors a lopsided smile on his face. "What?" Standing, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

"Baby Steele, eh?" Pulling his hands from his pockets he cupped her head in his hands, thumbs caressing her cheeks and drew her up, giving her a lingering kiss. "Has a certain ring to it," he commented before swinging open the door and guiding her in with hand to back. She came to a halt so suddenly, he stumbled trying not to collide with her.

"What on earth?!" she screeched. Remington's eyes followed hers to the gaping hole covered with a plastic sheet beginning shortly after the guest couch and extending to nearly the corner of Bernice's desk and filing cabinets which had also been shifted a couple feet closer to the office doors.

"Given your surprise, it would seem the contractor joined the two suites while you were out on Friday," he answered, stating the obvious. "Perhaps we might have a look in my office as well, eh?" He grimaced as he walked through the door of his office and prepared for the shriek he knew would follow.

"Oh, my… We can't work like this!" her voice rose and octave and decibel when she took in the scene around her. All the pictures from his wall had been removed and stacked on his desk; the sofa and end tables had been shoved down until they sat in front of the first of the two alcoves in the wall; the wood accents on the wall had all been removed and stacked on the floor; and a hole matching one the size in the reception area had been cut out of the far end of his wall. His office appeared exactly as what it was: a construction zone.

"Now, Laura, we knew it would happen sooner than later and, frankly, that it's happened so soon is a good sign. Shall we at last take a look on how the other side is fairing?" She threw up her hands.

"We may as well," she huffed, slipping through the opening in the plastic he held back for her.

He was impressed by the work he'd seen thus far. The nursery/safe room had been framed out as well as the small dining area for he and Laura. This also meant the walls on the other side of his office had been shifted, support beams put into place and the walls framed out for her new office. And, at the end of her office, her new executive restroom had already been replumbed, drywalled and tiled. Crossing to the door leading from her office into the hall, the surveyed the walls erected for the conference and file rooms, which would by themselves create a corridor for the new associate/intern offices and breakroom. Nodding his head in approval throughout their tour, he turned to her at last.

"What do you think?" She shook her head, reserving judgment.

"How much longer until we have presentable, workable space in the old offices?" she asked.

"I've no idea. But I'll request Monday that they press hard to install the door by Mildred's desk so at least the reception area looks presentable. Not to mention, of course, getting my office in shape by no later than mid-week. Think you can bear it that long, hmmm?" She pinched the bridge of her nose while giving the question consideration.

"Mid-week?" He nodded as they walked down the hall towards their old suite.

"I'll hammer on the importance of just that… turn the screws on them… drill it into—" He drew the laugh his was seeking from her as they re-entered the reception area.

"Alright, alright. You can stop. Mid-week," she confirmed. "In the meantime, I'll have Bernice reschedule everyone but the potential new employees. We can interview them in my office."

"How many candidates left standing?" he asked as he fingered through the twenty or so pages of recipes faxed to them by Elena.

"A half-dozen, four men, two women," she answered, looking at their calendar for Monday. I already have a couple in mind. I'm interested in seeing if we're on the same page." Pointing a finger at a page on the calendar, she frowned then picked up the phone and dialed Bernice. When she received no answer, she hung up then dialed again, this time Mildred at home.

"Good afternoon," Mildred greeted when she picked up the phone on the other side.

"Mildred, it's Laura. Do—"

"Well, hey there, Mrs. Steele. Did the Boss make it home okay? How are you feeling?" Laura battled her impatience and fought for a friendly tone.

"He did and much better. Listen, do you have any idea how Marvin T. Slottman Jr. ended up on our calendar tomorrow for an interview? I _didn't_ interview him last week, so I'm not sure why Bernice—" She puffed out a breath of irritation when she was interrupted again, ignoring Remington's sudden interest in the call.

"Oh, Mrs. Steele," Mildred beseeched. "I meant to speak with you on Friday but with you not coming in and all—"

"Mildred, what's this about?" Laura demanded.

"Well, after our little… snafu… last year, I took the kid under my wing until he left. The kid's really got something Mrs. Steele. He's a wizard with numbers and second only to me on digging up the dirt. When he called hoping for an interview… Well, I scheduled him in figuring it couldn't hurt…" she let her words trail off. Laura sighed, vexed.

"Fine, we'll keep the interview, but that's _all_ I'm promising. I already have a couple of candidates in mind… neither of whom will be easily swayed by Mr. Steele to do his personal errands."

"Awwww," the man himself complained, giving her a sulky look.

"Interns… associates… not personal assistants, Mr. Steele," she dismissed his complaints.

"Still, it couldn't hurt—" he tried.

"No," she cut him off before he could start. "End of discussion." She returned her attention to the phone where she could hear Mildred snickering at the exchange. "We'll see you on Monday, Mildred. Bye." Laura hung up the phone and looked at Remington expectantly.

"Ready, then?" he asked. The question had no sooner passed his lips than the phone rang. He looked at her with exasperation knowing she'd been unable to allow it to ring on.

"It's probably just Mildred again," she assured him as she reached for the receiver.

"Given your suggestion of an afternoon 'nap,' and that woman's uncanny timely to put a wrench into things, I don't doubt it for a moment," he commented dryly. She smiled at him before turning her attention to the phone.

"Remington Steele Agency."

"Mrs. Steele? Mrs. Steele!?" the frantic male voice came over the line. In the background, she could hear a 'popping sound' followed by the sound of shattering glass.

"Mr. Morton, what's wrong?" she asked, eyes alight with the adrenalin that has just shot through her, her frame stiffening in alert.

"Someone's shooting at me, that what's wrong!" Another pop and more shattering glass. "They're shooting up my house! Help!"

"We're on our way. Hang up and call the LAPD, we'll be there as soon as we can," she directed briskly. "And Mr. Morton? Keep your head down until help gets there!" Hanging up the phone, she started heading towards the door. "We gotta fly. Someone's taking shots at our client." He followed behind, papers in hand, then stooped down to lock the door before jogging down the hall to catch up with his determined wife.

"Lau-ra," he called after her, grasping her arm as the elevator doors slid open. She turned to look at him impatiently. "Do you think this is a good idea?" She pulled her arm away and stepped into the elevator.

"I'm not planning on dodging a hail of bullets, Mr. Steele," she scoffed. "I only plan to get him out of there once it's clear. This is the second weekend in a row someone's made an attempt on his life at his home. He should be secure enough at the loft until Murphy and I track down the last of the suspects." She leaned back against the elevator wall and sighed. "Murphy. I'll call him from the car." Remington eyed her as he pushed the down button for the lobby

"I suspect we're fully capable of extracting the client ourselves. Do we need to interrupt his weekend as well as our own?" Fingering her throat, she considered the question.

"We'll let him make the call. He's part of this case, will continue working it with me while you focus on Fournier." She shook her head. "I don't want him to feel like I've cut him out. Do you understand?" He pursed his lips and nodded slowly.

"I do. Although I must admit to looking forward to wrapping up the Fournier installations, so we can return to business as usual." That comment provoked a light laugh from her as they stepped from the elevator.

"What?" he asked, doing a double take.

"I don't think business will ever be 'usual' again," she answered, laying her hand against her abdomen and slanting her eyes towards him.

He wore the crooked grin that lit his face all the way to the client's house.


	11. Chapter 11: Live in Love

Chapter 11: Live in Love

True to her word, Laura waited patiently in the Porsche with Remington until the police had called the all-clear at Morton's house. The pair stood silently aside while the police finished their questioning of Morton and then departed as Murphy arrived.

"Andrew Morton, Remington Steele," Laura introduced the two men. Remington held out his hand and the two men shook.

"I can't take much more of this," the attorney told the trio, swiping at his distraught face. "Pinned down in my kitchen like a duck in a shooting gallery."

"Which is why we'd like you to pack enough for the next week or so," Laura told him. "We need to get you out of here."

"I can't leave town. I have depositions I need to take, a trial to prepare for," he protested.

"Not leave town," Murphy clarified. "I'm going to take you to one of the Agency properties. No one will be looking for you there."

"And if whoever it is follows us?" he worried.

"They won't. And if they do, Mrs. Steele and I will be hot on their heels as we'll be following you over," Remington answered. Laura and Murphy had worked out the plan on the drive over. "Then while Michael's gets you situated we'll pick up some supplies at the market."

"If you're sure…" Morton hedged.

"We are," Laura assured him. With a nod, the man disappeared into his bedroom to pack.

"I'm going to have a look around," Remington told Laura and Murphy, then disappeared into the kitchen.

"You're looking better, pal," Murphy commented, noting some of her color had returned and she wasn't as wobbly on her feet.

"I'm feeling a lot better," she confirmed. "Not a hundred percent, but getting there." She eyed him speculatively. "Any idea how Mr. Steele found out I was under the weather?" Murphy lifted his left shoulder and held up his right hand, palm up.

"What can I say? Guilty as charged." She crossed her arms and frowned at him.

"I should be furious with you," she mulled. "I thought I made myself perfectly clear that he had priorities to attend to in London."

"I didn't make any promises," he pointed out. "If it were Sher, I'd want to know. It's that simple. Let's be honest, partner: He's the only person who was going to make Laura Holt to slow down and take care of herself." The statement chafed against years of determination to stand on her own two feet.

"Make?" she repeated, voice rising. "Mr. Steele doesn't 'make' me do anything. I'm my own person, Murphy, you of all people should know that!" He laughed quietly as he shook his head.

"I spent the better part of a year trying to figure out what it was about the guy that made you stop noticing any other men once he walked through our doors. Other than the obvious, of course."

She recalled Murphy's words from years before when he'd confessed to having more than 'friendly' feelings towards her.

* * *

 _ **"I know I'm no competition for him. Looks. Or in that smarmy kind of charm he has. I'm a very straight-ahead guy. No curves, no wiggles and I care about you. More than a business associate, more than a friend. I think we could have something very special together."**_

* * *

"I finally figured it out, though: Steele'll cede the reins to you, more often than not, because he appreciates your drive, abilities and intelligence. But when he's had enough or you've gone too far, the man will stand toe-to-toe with you, not giving a damn if he pisses you off or hurts your feelings," Murphy summarized. "You're right. He can't 'make' you do anything. But you relent to him when you wouldn't anyone else, because you know the man would toss you over his shoulder and haul you out of the office, not caring if you were kicking, screaming and threatening the whole time." She scowled, tipping her chin up obstinately, but didn't dismiss the charges out of hand. "And you know why whole thing works?"

"By all means, tell me," she answered flippantly with a wave of her hand.

"Because at the end of the day, no matter how loud either of you scream or whatever digs you take at one another, you _both_ know it'll be okay. At the core, the two of you are exactly the same: you challenge one another, respect one another, and will do whatever it takes to keep the other safe." He gave her a smug smile. "So, no, he couldn't 'make' you do anything you don't want to, but when the man finally plants his feet, you may put on a good show but you know he's right."

"Laura, come have a look at this," Remington called from the other room, saving Laura from the blistering set down she was about to deliver on Murphy.

"Coming," she called back to him.

"I'm going to go see how Morton's doing on that packing," Murphy told her, hitching his thumb towards the bedroom.

"Come, have a look," Remington told Laura when she entered the kitchen. He was stooped down in the dining area next to the counter, holding up a bullet in his hand.

"Where did you find it?" He tapped close to the base of the counter wall with his penknife.

"Here." Looking from windows-to-wall and back again several times, her brows raised.

"The shooter would have had to be elevated for the bullet to embed there," she observed.

"Precisely," he agreed.

"Any idea where they were?" He stood up, dropping the expended shell into his pocket.

"I've an idea." She followed him to the window where he indicated a large oak twenty feet back in the yard. Using a critical eye, she assessed the approximate angle a bullet would take from within the limbs of the tree into the kitchen. She agreed with his assessment, but her brows knit together with a troublesome thought.

"The tree's still nearly bare. Wouldn't you think one of the neighbors might have been curious when they heard the shots? Glanced out a window, seen something?" she wondered aloud.

"One would think," he agreed, already having considered the same.

"Alright, Murphy and I will find time tomorrow to canvas the neighborhood." Remington gave a final glance around the room, before they returned to the living room to wait on Morton and Murphy.

"I'm guessing Morton hasn't owned the place long," he commented as an aside.

"I don't know, I never asked. Why do you think that?" she asked, curious. He looked around and twitched a shoulder.

"Sterile, absence of personal touches. No wife, significant other, kiddies?" She shook her head.

"No, not at all. His last relationship was with a married woman. Needless to say, her husband is one of the suspects," she informed him. They both turned as they heard Morton and Murphy exit the bedroom.

"Ready when you are," Murphy told them.

"Lead on," Remington told him, holding a door out the hand.

The foursome left Morton's place, locking the door solidly behind them.

* * *

Morton had been delivered to the loft without incident. As planned, while Murphy got the client settled, Laura and Remington ran to the market, laying in provisions for Morton while also purchasing a great deal of the ingredients required for Elena's recipes. By the time they'd arrived home, the energy she'd managed to recapture a bit of over the last twenty-four hours had flagged and she'd dozed lightly in the car. The 'nap' she'd suggested before they'd left and had been looking forward to throughout the afternoon, had turned into an actual nap as she'd fallen fast asleep on the couch, much to Remington's amusement, by the time he'd finished brewing her a fresh pot of ginger tea.

He'd put the unexpected, but understandable, extra time to good use and by the time Laura had awoken, he had trays of sugar coated ginger drops, ginger cookies and peanut butter and vanilla oat bars cooling on racks on the counter, as well as two trays of all-fruit popsicles in the freezer. The lemon soup with chicken and orzo was ready and waiting for dinner. To their immense relief, dinner didn't revisit and she actually had a second helping of the soup before they settled before the fireplace, he with a glass of wine in hand, she with a goblet of water. This evening, Daniel's letter had not gone forgotten, and Laura reclined between Remington's legs as he rested his back against a chair in preparation of reading it. When she tried to hand it to him, he waved it away before lifting that hand to his mouth to worry a nail. She studied him at length, having never considered he might be unprepared for what they found within.

"We don't have to—" she began.

"Waiting's neither going to change what's written nor alter the fact I dread finding out what's contained within," he advised, before returning his attention to his nail. Slowly, she nodded her head.

"Alright…" Running her finger under the flap, she opened the envelope and extracted the sheets from within. With one final glance at him, she began to read aloud.

 _My Dearest Harry –_

 _Well, my boy, given this missive has found its way into your hands, it would appear our deception has been uncovered, undoubtedly due to the insatiable curiosity of your Laura. The woman's an unnatural witch who's shown an uncanny ability to ferret out my schemes and put a wrench into them across the years. Well, that is neither here nor there, so I shall l get on with the apologies and explanations I'm certain you justly feel are due._

 _Although by now I'm sure you know the entirety of the deception orchestrated by the Earl and I, you've the right to hear the truth from myself as well. It wasn't planned. At least not along the lines of my scheme to see you named the Duke of Rutherford, which, of course, you and your Laura made sure to see run afoul. Quite the contrary, our complicity began with one of the few noble acts of my life: a warning, if you will, that his Lordship take care not to disrupt the life you'd so carefully constructed for yourself, a life which had come to mean everything to you. Never would I have dreamt such an act would lead to a conspiracy to between two men, once strangers now close friends, both of whom valued you most amongst the people they knew in this world. Oh, I realized you might never forgive me my falsehoods, but it was a cost I was more than willing to pay if it meant allowing you the life you'd always secretly longed for. If it meant, above all else, keeping you safe and well._

 _I'd failed my only child and would not allow myself to fail the man I'd come to look upon as the son I might have had._

Laura felt Remington stiffen behind her at the last words.

 _You see, my boy, the story of Fiona was not entirely a creation, although it was here in London that we met. I loved the woman madly, deeply, something I'd not even conceived myself capable of before she and I met. Petite of stature with auburn hair and eyes which reminded me of the color of the finest of bays the woman was made of fire, both in temper and passion. What a cocky blighter I was believing, as I did, I could seduce Fi long enough to sample her wares then move on. I was defenseless against the heart which lay beneath her surface and before I knew it I found myself quite properly and contentedly wed, then, shortly thereafter, with a child on the way._

 _There was only one thing standing between us and the future: funds. I'd set myself up in a lavish townhome when I'd arrived back in London, thinking to draw a few unsuspecting souls into an investment scheme which would have lined my pockets handsomely for some time to come. Yet, Fi's arrival changed all of that, and before long the nuts I'd squirreled away were nearly depleted. One last job and we'd be set for years to come, or so I thought. Instead, I'd found myself serving five years at Winson Green, leaving Fi behind pregnant and nearly destitute. Four months after my sentence had begun I received word: Fi and my child had died during birth. Unable to afford proper medical care, she'd languished for days before her body could simply fight no longer. My child never drew its first breath and was buried still cradled within its mother's womb._

 _I can't say what it was which drew me to pluck you from the streets: the audacity to pick my pocket, the skill with which you did it, or the sheer fire of your bravado when caught. Or was it that there was something… inexplicable… in you which reminded me of how my son or daughter might have been? Whatever it was, I've never regretted my decision to take you on. Yes, even in those times when you'd run off, leaving me to sit for days upon my hands. I imagine, however, early on I believed you would be a bit of redemption, a chance to atone, at least in part, for failing my own child. Yet it wasn't long before you, yourself, were reason enough._

 _I've always thought of you as a son, Harry. Quite against my will, you wormed your way into my heart and there wasn't a thing I wouldn't do for you, if only asked. When the time came that I either risked you despising me for the rest of your days or risk your death at the hands of Sean Hadley, the latter simply wasn't an option. You've been my boy for more than two decades now and as any father would for his child, I'd lay down my life for yours. The least I could do was sacrifice your regard for me so you might lead the life you'd made for yourself, a life due and well-earned._

 _Thomas is a good man, my boy, a man willing to sacrifice his greatest desire to see you safe. Knowing you as I do, you'll eventually find it within yourself to forgive him for denying you so that he could save you. I hope for both of your sakes you do so sooner than later. I, better than anyone, know how fleeting time is and that we're wise not to waste a minute of it. Thomas is the father you have long deserved. A father, I suspect, who is better than your fondest of dreams._

 _As I sit here writing this missive I cannot hope but think of how I wish you to be when at last you sit down to read. A man no longer searching for a name, but having long ago used the birth certificate Thomas and I conspired for you to find so you might well and truly become Remington Steele, in name as well as heart and mind. Your Laura lingering nearby, watching and worrying, no doubt prepared to resurrect me only to end me again should my words bring you any pain. A child of your own, or two or three, running about, bringing joyful chaos to your home and life. In short, all you've ever hoped for but never believed you'd a right to._

 _Assure your always dubious and inimical Laura that every word I wrote to her was true. God above knows I don't wish her hunting me down in the afterlife for being anything less than honest with her. You were lucky to have found her, my boy. I knew from the first moment she and I met that she'd stand up to Goliath himself to keep you out of harm's way and by her side. I couldn't help but think of my own Fi when in your Laura's company, for they are cut from the same cloth the two of them. Hold tight to her, for women like she and Fi come but once in a lifetime._

 _You, my boy, were my best accomplishment and the greatest blessing of my life. I was proud to be your 'father,' if only for a little while. Live well, live in love… Remington Steele._

 _~Daniel_

Laura carefully folded the letter and returned it to its envelope, allowing Remington time to digest what Daniel had written. She could feel his chest contract as he lifted both hands to drag his fingers through his hair, before dropping them, only to lift the glass of cabernet to his lips. Standing, she dropped the letter on the coffee table then grabbed the throw pillows off each chair and tossed them before the fireplace. Stretching out on her back, she waited as he followed, settling down on his side, head propped up by hand, supported by an elbow to floor. She was surprised when a smile lifted his lips.

"It's been far too long since last we've spent an evening before the fire," he observed. "There was a time, not so long ago, where we'd spend several nights a week in just this manner."

"We've been busy," she noted, nodding her head slowly, understanding he was leading up to something but unsure what.

"I seem to recall a promise made in Ireland about 'not wasting precious time,'" he reminded her, reaching out to finger a lock of hair. "As Daniel just reminded us, time is fleeting. I've already so many regrets about time lost during the four years as we danced around each other. I don't want to add to them."

"I understand," she answered quietly, clasping his hand and drawing it away from her hair. She pressed her lips to his palm. "What's going on in that mind of yours, sweetheart?" His hand slipped from hers. Bussing her cheek, he readjusted until he lay with his head below her breasts and talented fingers tugged her shirt from beneath her shorts before releasing several buttons and unsnapping then sliding down the zipper on her shorts. His eyes met and held hers, as he feathered his fingers over her bared abdomen.

"I can't imagine losing you," he mulled, "Let alone the both of you now. There was always an underlying… aura of…" he shook his head, searching for the words, "…sadness, weariness in Daniel. I imagine his loss of Fi and their child might be why." Her fingers weaved through his hair.

"It very well could have been," she agreed, thoughtfully. "Especially since he wasn't there with them." Her hand slid from his hair to caress his cheek. "What else?"

"Thomas," he shook his head. "To have been there throughout the pregnancy only to lose Aislin and I so shortly after my birth." His eyes lifted to meet hers. "I'm not sure what to think of it all. On the one hand, I think he should have fought to keep us. On the other…" he trailed off.

"Nineteen. Sheltered. Every decision made for him by his parents, except for one wild summer. Dependent on his parents for _everything._ I'm not saying those things excuse the choices made. But I have to wonder: If we're scared at our ages now, when we have more than enough resources to meet our child's needs, can you imagine what it must have been like for him at nineteen?" She tilted her head to the side. "And even then, he _did_ try to find you, from the very start."

"True. True." His fingers drew little designs across her stomach as she toyed with his hair.

"Are you still angry with him?" His eyes flicked to her then away.

"No. Baby Steele has set me to thinking is all. If you or both of you were to disappear? I'd say 'sod all the rest' and pound my way 'cross the globe until I found you." She hummed at the thought.

"Hmmm. But you would have the training to do just that," she pointed out. "Even then, you never know. His parents' investigators never found a trace of you." He nodded his head in answer.

"True enough." He turned his head to look at her again. "I've absolutely no idea what to call Thomas, Laura. When we're together, I can tell he wishes I'd refer to him as my father by one name or another, and I'd be lying if I hadn't said the idea hasn't begun to grow on me as well. But what?" She raised her brows, never even having considered he might be facing that particular quandary. She lifted her hand in question.

"What do you want our child to call you?" A smile lifted his lips and sparkled in his eyes at the question.

"Da, as is the Irish custom. British born or not, I never think of myself as anything but Irish." She lifted her brows at him.

"That's the second time in recent history you've made mention of that: First with Thomas, now here tonight. If that's the case, why do you do your best to quash your Irish accent?" He shrugged a shoulder.

"Bias, I suppose. The people amid whom I mingled for the better part of my life generally would not offer the same respect to an Irishman as they would a Brit. A good deal of those from my prior life refer to me as Mick. It's not a derivation of Michael, but actually a derogatory name used for someone from Ireland." Her brows knit together.

"And you don't find it insulting to be called such?" Another lift of a shoulder.

"It would depend upon who is calling me by the name. Monroe? Not in the least. Whereas with some of the lads on the streets of Brixton or, later, with some of my fellow miscreants there were days it guaranteed a donnybrook."

"Which returns us to the topic of Daniel and Thomas. What term do the British typically use to refer to a father?" He scratched at the side of his nose while pondering the question then returned his hand to her stomach.

"I suppose it depends where they were raised or even their class. Dad. Pop. Father."

"Amongst the peerage?" A corner of his mouth lifted in a rueful grimace.

"Father, of course. Must be proper and full of starch, mustn't we?" he answered in his Ruggles impersonation. She laughed and ruffed his hair.

"Not quite your cup of tea?" His hand lifted in the air again.

"I've no idea. It's not as though I've had much practice at any form of the name rolling off my tongue, love." Leaning over, he pressed his lips to her belly, then began refastening her clothing.

"Maybe you should just ask Thomas what he prefers," she suggested.

"And you? What do you wish to be called?" he asked, blithely changing the subject.

"Mom, I suppose. Although Baby Steele will most likely call me Mommy while younger as most kids seem to do." She turned to her side to face him, tucking her hands beneath her cheek. "What do you want? A girl or boy?"

"Mmmm, I think I've already voiced my preference previously," he reminded her, a devilish gleam in his eyes, as he waggled a brow in her direction. "Going against conventional preferences, a daughter, exactly like her mother." The thought drew a lyrical laugh from her.

"You may want to qualify that wish, Mr. Steele. I seem to recall any number of my… traits… that you've wished to perdition on more than one occasion."

"Ah, but restraint is such a desirable quality in a daughter. Allows a father to sleep soundly at night," he grinned. She glared at him, purely on principle.

"My temper?" she challenged.

"All the better to chase the boys away. Yet more assurance for a sound night's sleep." His smile widened. She hummed then laughed again.

"Just remember I warned you."

"And yourself, Mrs. Steele? A girl or boy?" Her lips twitched upwards in a rueful smile.

"I know I'm supposed to say, 'I don't care as long as he or she is healthy'… But I always wished for an older brother. So, I'd have to say a boy."

"Ah, a built-in protector, eh?" She gave him a look that suggested he'd lost his mind.

"Of course not. I wanted someone to throw a baseball with, to teach me the slider, to get me into that tag football game down the block…" Unable to resist, he leaned down and brushed his lips to hers.

"Why'd I even ask? Hmmmm?" He sobered and frowned when her words jogged a memory. "Laura, why did your mother once refer to you as the 'middle child'? Wouldn't that require a bookend, so to speak, to Frances?" Laura pushed up onto an elbow to stare at him.

"When did she do that?" she asked.

"When Felicia popped round that first year, amid conversations of laundry baskets and dental assistants."

* * *

" _ **Laura has always been a very sensitive girl. My middle one."**_

* * *

"I was the middle child for less than twenty-four hours." She flopped to her back, and placed a palm against her forehead. "Mother was pregnant when I was four, maybe five. Something went wrong. My brother was born a month-and-a-half early and Mother ended up having an emergency hysterectomy, ending my Father's hopes for that son he'd always dreamed of." She rolled her eyes in his direction, a doleful look on her face as she laughed sadly. "Explains the widow and her sons, doesn't it?"

"There is no proper explanation for a man abandoning his children, love," he disagreed. He bent down until his lips lay near her ear. "I'm sorry," Remington whispered. She caressed his cheek with a hand, before returning to her side and facing him. "Had Abigail been ill? Had an accident?" he wondered. Laura lifted her brows and gave a slight shake of her head.

"I've no idea. You know Mother. Everything's on a need-to-know basis. Even when she was driving Frances mad throughout her pregnancy with Danny, she never told her what happened, only seemed convinced since she was carrying a boy something would go terribly wrong. Needless to say, Frances and Donald chose not to find out what they were having with Mindy and Laurie Beth."

"And do we? Intend to find out?" She gave him a small smirk at the question.

"Why _Mr. Steele_ ," she drawled while plucking at the lapel of his shirt playfully, "Didn't your dreams already provide you an answer to that question?" She lifted humor filled brown eyes to warmly lit blue ones.

* * *

" _ **First, we didn't want to know if our child was a boy or a girl until they were born, believing that life held very few pure surprises and that was once of them."**_

* * *

"Ah, I see," he grinned. "What's life without –"

"A little mystery," she finished. "Now, shut up and kiss me. It's been a long time since we've necked in front of the fire." Laughing, he leaned down, allowing his lips to hover close to hers.

"Your wish is my command, my Lady," he mumbled before locking his lips over hers and lowering her to the floor.

"I'm still not calling you 'My Lord,' Remington," she laughed, when their lips briefly parted.

"Awww," he groaned in complaint before his lips sealed over hers again.

Very shortly she forgot what had drawn her laughter and lost herself in the exquisitely tender, gently possessive kisses that made it impossible for her to think about anything but the man in her arms.


	12. Chapter 12: A Date

Chapter 12: A Date

Much to Laura's dismay, on Sunday morning she was greeted with a rollicking case of morning sickness. She'd felt so… well… on Saturday night that when she woke with the vague, disconcerting feeling of being seasick, she'd brushed it aside. Until, that is, she stood… swayed… then bolted for the bathroom. She didn't manage to crawl out of bed again until nearly ten-thirty, by then having determined she'd need to set the alarm clock for a full hour earlier the next day if she had any hope of meeting the accountant on time. Remington plied her throughout the day with a steady stream of Elena's morning sickness remedies including a late lunch of ginger papaya soup and a whole wheat turkey pita and a dinner of Rotini with chicken sprinkled lightly with lemon.

By mid-afternoon she'd felt well enough to venture out for some much needed intimate apparel shopping, an endeavor, of course, in which her husband was only too eager to assist. After much laughter and eye rolling inspired by his antics, she'd kicked him out so she could concentrate on the task at hand. Purchases made, she journeyed to the men's department only to find her spendthrift spouse nowhere within. Likewise, a tour through housewares failed to turn him up. With a small laugh as an idea of where she might find him took shape, she rode the elevator up to third floor. There, Laura found Remington standing at almost the center of the infant's department, rubbing at his face.

"It's a good thing I'm a detective or I might never have found you," she teased when she approached him.

"Have you any idea the enormity of the purchases required for an infant who does nothing but sleep all day?" he asked.

"I already told you I have rudimentary knowledge, at best," she reminded him.

"Crib, bassinet, rocker, changing table, dresser, nightlight, baby monitor, bedding with bumpers—" He looked down at her, clearly flummoxed. "What in god's name is a bumper and why would we want it near our child? It sounds positively hideous!" He wiped at his face again. "Pram, high chair, bouncer, swing. A swing? The babe won't be able to sit for how long, so how is he or she supposed to swing?" Her lips began to twitch with amusement as he turned his attention back to eyeing the store. "Diaper pail, diaper bag, receiving blankets, burp cloths. Does Baby Steele actually need a cloth in order to burp? Eh? Nappies, disposable or cloth? Bottles. Glass or plastic? With collapsible liner or without? What type of nipple, because apparently there are a large variety from which to choose, and the choice you make could possibly lead to disaster where the babe is concerned. Nursing pillows, nursing pad, nipple cream… I don't even wish to think about the why for of the last. Nail clippers, diaper cream, thermometer, baby soap, baby shampoo, baby lotion, binkies." He turned his attention back to her. "What in the bloody hell is a binky, Laura? The only Binky I know of is you and you come part and parcel with Baby Steele!" By the time he finished, she pressed palm to mouth to muffle her laughter as her brown eyes danced with amusement. "It's _not_ funny, Lau-ra. What's truly frightening is I've already forgotten _at least_ half of the clerk's litany of needs and must-do's." Clamping her upper teeth on her lower lip to keep the laughter at bay, she took him by the arm and guided him back towards the elevator. Only when she finally managed to rein in her amusement did she speak.

"I'm fairly certain we can put at least _one_ of those questions to rest right now," she consoled.

"Oh, and which is that?" he inquired, as he leaned his backside against the wall of the elevator and dragged both hands through his hair.

"Unless _you_ plan on scrubbing the cloth diapers, we'll be using disposable," she advised. He blinked at her trying to discern what she was saying then turned slightly green around the jowls when it computed.

"You mean _after_ the babe's soiled them? As in…" he waved a hand around "… yeesh?"

"I can't imagine why they'd need scrubbing _before…_ " she imitated his hand gesture, "… yeesh."

"That's just…" he couldn't find an acceptable word. "Disposable it is." She walked over to lean next to him against the wall and patted his arm.

"It'll be fine. We have seven months to figure it all out," she reminded him. "As for the rest of what you've forgotten? I realized last night there is a likely a list of must-have's for first time parents in one of those books you brought home."

"Do you think those books will also tell us how large of an addition our home will require in order to make room for everything?" A dimple flashed in her cheek at the complaint. It was so rare to see the unflappable Mr. Steele completely flabbergasted that she enjoyed every moment of the time when it happened.

So, on Sunday afternoon until twilight, they'd lounged on the hammock reading those books and looking for the answers to those questions. The day sped by, as did the night and it seemed in only the blink of an eye the alarm was blaring, demanding they rise for work. Remington's hand had smoothed down Laura's arm, halting her from getting up.

"I'd like to try something this morning. To see if we might dispel the morning sickness first thing, eh?" Rolling to her back she looked up at him quizzically as he turned and picked up something off his nightstand. "Ginger lemon lozenge," he explained, handing it to her. "Let's wait twenty minutes or so and see if you can take to your feet without a mad dash to the bathroom immediately following. Hmm?"

"I guess it couldn't hurt to try," she shrugged, popping the lozenge into her mouth then rolling back to her side. He wormed his way back around her body and settled in to doze. "You're really are going above and beyond, Mr. Steele," she yawned.

"You know me, Mrs. Steele, anything for another wink or two," he answered dismissively. It was too much. Her warm little body tucked against his, her scent surrounding him. He slept. Only to be roused scant seconds later, he'd swear, by a fully dressed wife. Rolling to his back, he scrubbed at his beard with a hand.

"Thirty minutes until you need to leave, sweetheart," she informed him, pressing a kiss to his forehead before standing. He glanced at the alarm clock, confused. Seven-fifteen? Last he'd looked it was five-thirty.

"I can afford to be a few minutes late," he told her, as he swung his legs over the side of the bed and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes. "You, however, can't afford not to put something on your stomach lest you become ill. I won't be a moment."

"I'll be fine. I made myself a cup of tea for the ride. I left the kettle warming on the stove for you," she advised as she turned to leave. He captured her hand in his.

"Laura," he drawled, concern etching his words.

"I said I'll be fine, Remington." Her tone made it clear she wouldn't argue the point further. "The lozenge worked. I'm a little queasy but I haven't gotten sick. I put a couple more in my purse along with two peanut butter oat bars. If you want to pick up lunch for us…" she allowed the suggestion to stand. Surprisingly, he shook his head in the negative.

"As enticing a thought as having lunch with you is, since we're rescheduling all appointments until week's end, I thought I try to visit the remainder of the Fournier stores. If I put in a late evening, I could very well have all the systems planned by night's end." She gave him a sidelong glance.

"What's the rush? We have until month's end." He nodded in agreement.

"We do. And a slew of potential clients wanting the same. I'd prefer to get ahead so I can reconvene my partnership with a certain lovely young woman." The thought brought a smile to her lips that reached all the way to her eyes.

"A worthy endeavor then." She pressed up on her tiptoes and tapped her lips to his. "I'll see you this afternoon for the interviews."

"Laura," he called just as she prepared to cross the threshold of their bedroom. She turned, giving him a questioning look. "You'll call your doctor and make an appointment?" he asked anxiously. She gave him a dimpled smile as her face lit up.

"I will. As soon as I get to the office," she promised.

"You'll call and let me know?" She crossed the room, returning to him.

"As soon as I know." She brushed her lips across a cheek then departed.

Monday was as busy as they'd be forewarned it would be. Laura checked in with the office on the way to the accountant's, instructing Bernice to reschedule all appointments until Thursday and beyond. She and Murphy returned to Morton's neighborhood and canvassed it for anyone currently home that might have seen something two days prior. They'd had as much success with finding a witness as they'd had at zeroing in on a suspect so far: absolutely none. The neighbors whose backyard abutted Morton's were on vacation. The neighbor to the right of his house was deaf as a doornail, and the neighbors on the left appeared not to be home. The neighbor across the street did recall hearing what sounded like gunfire, but hadn't witnessed anything out of the ordinary. Their luck held when they drove out Inglewood to Jim Carstair's last known address, only to find the small, Spanish style cottage vacant and with a sale's sign on the lawn. A call to the realtor also netted nothing of help: Carstairs was not the listed owner, the owner was out of country, the property was a rental investment, and no, the realtor wasn't privy to information on tenants. A canvas of the working class neighborhood found no one at home, or at least no one willing to open a door. Frustrated they returned to the office. With Laura and Remington tied up in interviews which would start in under an hour and extend the remainder of the day, Murphy took his leave, pledging to check in on Morton on his way home.

But, there had been at least one ray of light on the day thus far, Laura admitted to herself as she sat behind her desk, feet propped on the corner and tapping her fingers together. When she'd arrived at the offices at nine-fifteen, true to her word she'd shut herself behind closed doors and called the offices of her OB/GYN. For the first time in the dozen plus years she'd been a patient, she hadn't been drolly informed the 'next available appointment' was nearly a month out. Instead, while Dr. Adam's schedule was packed, Dr. Miller had an appointment cancellation for the following morning at eight-thirty. She eagerly scheduled herself in then picked up the phone and called Remington's car phone.

"How does eight-thirty tomorrow morning sound?" she asked without preamble, tapping a pencil against the desk absent mindedly as she smiled into the phone.

"It sounds as though my wife's powers of persuasion are as sharp as they ever were," he answered, raising his voice to be heard over the wind and traffic around him.

"No persuasion needed. Like whoever benefited from the numerous appointments I cancelled last year, we are benefitting from someone doing the same. Do you want to go?" she queried, suspecting he would.

"Ah, Mrs. Steele, need you even ask?" She laughed warmly, leaning further back in her chair.

"No, I don't think that I do, Mr. Steele." Her words went straight to his heart and a smile lit his face for the remainder of the drive to the next Fournier site.

Remington, unlike his partner and wife, had encountered great success throughout the day. Despise legwork he might, but given the proper incentive he could accomplish it with aplomb. And wrapping up the evaluations of the stores and putting into place the layout of the upgraded security systems? As it meant the return to his partner's side, incentive it certainly was. He'd already scheduled a meeting with Monroe for eleven the following morning, to review the upgrades and changes to the remaining stores. By the time he climbed into bed at slightly past midnight, snuggling close to Laura's delectably warm form, he fully believed by week's end the Fournier stores would be complete.

"Are you done?" she asked sleepily, tangling her fingers with his and drawing their joined hands to rest between her breasts.

"Mmmm," he hummed, nuzzling the top of her head with his chin, "That I am."

"Get some sleep," she managed, before she let sleep take her away again. He chuckled quietly at the 'wifely' order but none the less settled in to do just that.

When the alarm went off the following morning, Remington pressed a ginger-lemon lozenge into Laura's hand, then climbed out of bed heading directly towards the shower. Yesterday, for the first time in more than a week, she'd made it through the day without emptying her stomach. Just a good day? Maybe. But if a day of relative comfort was at all due to Elena's recipes, it seemed wise to continue employing them. Thus, by the time they'd climbed into their respective cars to drive to the doctor's office, Laura had her second cup of tea on the day in hand, and a purse filled with lozenges, sugar coated ginger drops and peanut butter vanilla oat bars.

By eight-twenty they were ensconced in the waiting room as Laura filled out a sheath of paperwork, pausing frequently for her brows to knit and to tap pen against paper.

"Do people actually know all of this?" she finally asked, frustration peppering her voice. Remington peered over her shoulder at the lengthy list of questions pertaining to family medical history. He gave a shrug of his shoulder.

"Not I. Truth be told, it never even occurred to me we might need information such as this or I'd have asked Thomas for a bit of background," he admitted. "Leastwise we know we've suffered from none of the maladies listed. You'd think that would count for something, eh?"

"I suppose," she agreed half-heartedly. She blew out a puff of air, feeling inadequately prepared… again… for parenthood in the wake of being unable to even provide a complete medical history. Winding his fingers with her free hand, he brushed his lips over her knuckles.

"All will be fine, love," he assured her in an undertone. Uncertain brown eyes lifted to meet his. "All things considered, I suspect we're yards ahead—"

"Mrs. Steele," a voice called as the door leading to the exam rooms opened.

"Yes," Laura acknowledged, standing along with Remington. He kept his hand comfortingly on the small of her back as they were taken to a room.

The nurse pulled a cotton gown out of a drawer and lay it on the exam table.

"Strip down all the way and leave the gown open at the front. I'll be back before you know it to take your vitals," she instructed, then left the room, closing the door behind her.

Remington puttered around the room while Laura undressed and put on the far too large gown. Hands shoved in his pockets he took a great deal of interest in the instruments laying on a tray atop a rolling table.

"Fitting for the Marquis de Sade himself," he reflected.

"I'm sure nearly every woman would agree with you," she nodded as she hoisted herself up on the exam table. Her comment was greeted by lifted brows as he looked from the instruments to her.

"Surely you don't mean… I mean he doesn't…" his eyes wandered below her waist, as his words stalled. She lifted her brows at him in answer. "Tell me you're joking."

"I wish that I were," she retorted ruefully.

"It's amazing a woman ever let's a man near them," he mulled aloud.

"Men have no idea how easy they have it," she concurred.

"Until one comes up on the wrong side of a prostrate exam," he countered. She winced in empathy, then raised her brows in challenge.

"Unless, of course, you consider a woman faces those tools once a year from her teens until menopause. Once you have, oh, thirty-five to forty of those exams, we'll discuss who comes up worse in the whole scheme of things."

Their conversation halted when the door swung open and the nurse returned carrying a tote with her. Once Laura's blood pressure and pulse were taken and recorded in her chart, the nurse removed a rubber strap from the tote.

"I've already had the pregnancy test at the hospital," Laura informed the woman. "The were supposed to forward the result to your office."

"They did. But they didn't perform a full screening for pregnancy. So, more blood I'm afraid," the nurse replied, snapping on a pair of latex gloves.

"Full screening?" Remington asked, ducking he head down to catch the nurse's eye as Laura puffed an agitated breath. While she would by no means run from them, needles ranked right up there on her list with the tools lying in wait on the tray.

"Rh factor, hemoglobin, immunities and to rule out any infections which could be of an issue," the nurse supplied.

"Infections? Such as?" he prodded.

"Hepatitis, syphilis, gonorrhea, HIV, chlamydia." The Steele's eyes turned to the door when a tap sounded against it.

"Little Laura Holt, all grown up, married and about to be a mother!" the gregarious man with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing a lab coat boomed. To Remington's utter amusement he watched a flush pinken his wife's skin. "I've been taking care of your wife since she was sixteen. Dragged in kicking and screaming by your mother, wasn't it?" he teased her. To her mortification, she felt her skin heat again.

"You know it was," she answered with a roll of her eyes.

"How is Abigail?" he inquired.

"Still living in Connecticut. Thank God," the last mumbled under her breath.

"I've missed you the last couple of times you were in. Told Doc Adams if he's going to poach patients, he should at least limit himself to those who aren't longtime favorites." He clapped his hands together once and rubbed them together. "Alrighty then. First time mom. Familiar with what we're going to do today?"

"'Fraid not," she answered succinctly.

"Full pelvic including pap. I'll check your cervix so we know where we stand there. Breast exam." The doctor's eyes flitted to Remington as he spoke, and noted the man had lost half of the little color he had in his face. "After, I want to take a look for myself at the fetus, so ultrasound and fetal heart check. We should have a relatively accurate estimate of when the baby will arrive before you leave." Another clap and rub of the hands. "Ready to roll?"

"As I'll ever be," she answered, not even nearly as chipper as Dr. Miller about what lay ahead.

"Mr. Steele, you might want to step outside. As soon as I've finished the exam, we'll bring you back in for all the excitement."

Remington's eyes met Laura's and he silently thanked the stars above that his wife and partner seemed as reticent as he about his presence during the first part. Not a squeamish man under normal circumstances, he had little desire to watch another man, doctor or not, getting overly familiar with his wife's most intimate of areas… especially with the sadistic tools his eyes couldn't help but flick towards one last time. With a nod, he left Laura in the capable hands of doctor and nurse and happily held up the wall in the hallway.

Then proceeded to work himself into a dither wondering what was going on behind that door. Before long he was pacing, pausing to stuff his hands into his pockets, then pacing again while rubbing at the back of his neck. _What's taking so bloody long? Is there a problem? With Laura? With the babe? At the very least shouldn't someone stick their heads out the door and let a man know all was going well?_ Just when he was considering storming the proverbial gates, the door swung open.

"Mr. Steele, you can come back in," the nurse informed him. He didn't hesitate and strode swiftly to Laura's side. Lying back with a paper cloth covering her from hips down he grasped her proffered hand. Dancing brown eyes met strained blue ones. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze.

"Relax, everything's fine," she soothed. Swallowing hard, he nodded his head rapidly.

"Better than fine, I'd say. Your wife's a specimen of excellent health," Miller confirmed while positioning the ultrasound machine close to the exam table. He clapped and scrubbed his hands. "Now for the exciting part."

Twenty minutes later, the Steele's were left alone in the room while Laura redressed. They'd leave the offices on that day with new ultrasound pictures and something extra. Remington had stunned her when he'd removed the Agency's micro-recorder from his pocket in hopes they'd get to hear their child's heartbeat again, and with a press of a button, it was now theirs to listen to anytime they wished.

Grasping her head in the palm of his hands, he drew her up and covered her lips with his own, lingering there, immersing himself in her taste, savoring the velvety softness of her lips. The kiss left her dazed, and he drew her into his arms.

"October 25th," he breathed in wonder. "How fitting, so shortly after the fifth anniversary of our meeting for the first time."

"I was thinking more along the lines of so close to the first time we ever kissed," she mused. He stiffened and his eyes widened as he moved her away. _Laura admitting to sentimentality, especially surrounding those early days?_ The thought was baffling. Her laughter filled the room, so amused was she by his reaction. Lacing their fingers together, she tugged him out the door towards the checkout window. Grinning, he followed behind her willingly, then came tried in vain to try to turn her back around. She glanced back at him to see what he was about and came to a halt when she saw his eyes filled with unconcealed dread and… she struggled to put a finger on the emotion. Panic? Her eyes followed the direction of his. Her back stiffened ramrod straight, and her shoulder drew up defensively as she ran her eyes from head-to-toe down the length of the woman who had caught his eye. She did a double take, eyes widening and mouth dropping open as she concentrated on a stomach which protruded noticeably. Yanking her hand from his, she crossed her arms protectively around herself. Remington's jaw twitched in anticipation of her next move.

"Let's not make a scene, eh?" he implored in an undertone. Her lips tightened and fire ignited by fury lit her eyes, but she gave him a curt nod. She'd no more desire to air their dirty laundry in the middle of her doctor's office than him.

"… and remember, you'll check into the hospital on Friday evening to be induced if the baby doesn't make an appearance before then," the clerk informed the young woman.

"Yes, Friday," she confirmed. As she turned away from the window, she spotted Remington and Laura.

"Mr. Steele, Mrs. Steele?" the friendly, if hesitant voice, of the stunning strawberry blonde with green eyes greeted them.

"Clarissa," Remington replied politely, with a nod while Laura plastered that icy calm mask on her face.

"Clarissa," she nodded to the other woman. "It appears congratulations are in order." She managed to force the words past her lips, surprised when she heard no rancor in her own voice.

"Thank you. For yourselves as well?" Clarissa inquired in an attempt at polite conversation.

"Just a checkup," Laura prevaricated.

"Oh, well, I hope it's all good news. I… I… should be going," the young woman stammered, taking several steps backwards towards the exit. Laura only nodded and stepped up to the checkout window herself.

"Yes, well, um, goodbye then and good luck," Remington managed with a nod towards her stomach.

"Thanks," she answered, giving him a warm smile. "Bye."

Rocking back on his heels, Remington shoved his hands in his pockets, doing his utmost not to fidget while Laura finished setting up her next appointment for four weeks in the future. When she was finished, he lay his hand on the small of her back to guide her towards the door, then battled the urge to sigh. To her credit, she didn't yank away or shove his hand off her person, but the subtle stiffening of her spine told him she'd wished she was able to do just that without drawing attention to them.

Laura held her silence throughout the elevator ride, although she placed distance between them as soon as they stepped on board the crowded car. When the doors opened in the lobby, she slipped through the throng of people getting off, and strode as quickly as she could across the lobby. With no other option at his disposal, Remington waited until they cleared the front doors, before picking up his own pace. She'd just reached the Porsche when he caught up with her. Grasping her upper arm, he prevented her from getting into the sleek little sports car and speeding away.

"Laura, we need to talk about this. I can imagine what that fertile imagination of yours has come up with, but—"

"Did you know?!" she asked in a glacial tone, crossing her arms around herself again. His own temper ignited at what she was implying, although he hadn't expected any less from the woman before him. He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, even as the muscle in his jaw twitched.

"Why would I?" he questioned, his voice emulating her own. Her chin tilted back stubbornly, and she blinked rapidly at the moisture which had sprung unwillingly into her eyes. His anger fizzled and he reached for her.

" _Don't touch me!_ " she bit out, backing away from him and grabbing blindly for the door handle, swinging the door open. He held out an arm, pressing a hand against the door frame, blocking her escape.

"Laura—" he tried again.

"Did you know!?" she demanded, her voice rising an octave in her angst. His brows drew together at the unspoken accusation, and his blue eyes turn ice cold.

"I don't believe I care for what you're insinuating—"

"I don't believe I'm _insinuating_ anything, Mr. Steele," she retorted, cutting him off. "I'm asking you if you were aware the hooker you were going to marry nine months ago… and, I might add, is due to have a baby any day now… was pregnant. Or maybe I should just ask if I was the last to know!" Drawing his lips together tightly and nodding his head slowly, he released his hold on the door frame and stepped away from the car.

"Pffffttttt…" He gesticulated a brushing motion with his hand. "Off with you then. I've nothing left to say." With those words, he turned on his heel and strode angrily towards the Auburn, never looking back.

Laura sat down in the Porsche and slammed the door after herself. Her fury raged around her like white hot heat on a smoldering summer's day, as she reversed out of her parking spot then peeled out of the lot, speeding away from damned the thief and conman who'd stolen her heart.


	13. Chapter 13: A Plot Unfolds

Chapter 13: A Plot Unfolds

Laura yanked the steering wheel of the Porsche hard to the right, screeching into the parking lot of the gas station. Shoving herself out of the car, she managed to beg the key to the restroom from the attendant and make it into the haven of the private bathroom just in the nick of time. Eventually pushing to her feet, she flushed the toilet then sat down burying her face in her hands and rocking with her misery. Only when she was certain the threatening tears would not flow did she stand and pace across the small room, muttering to herself, and resisting the urge to scream. Several times she slapped a flat palm against the cool tile on the walls lamenting her gullibility.

 _Pull it together, Holt,_ she chided herself silently. Stopping in the center of the floor, she lifted her face towards the ceiling, forcing herself to draw long, deep breaths even as her fists clenched and unclenched repeatedly at her sides. _Today was supposed to be about us, our life, our child,_ she raged silently. With strength born of half a lifetime of practice, she at last bottled up her hurt and fury and left the confines of the bathroom.

Pulling out of the gas station, she pointed the Porsche in the direction of the loft. She'd volunteered to check in on Morton today since Murphy had done the same the day prior. Bracing an elbow against the window frame, she leaned her head into her hand as she drove, ignoring the phone ringing near her hip.

Clarissa. When she'd found Remington at the Little Chapel of Perpetual Hope trying to marry the stunning prostitute, it had been like a physical blow which left her reeling for close to two months. Time and again, she'd done things, said things, meant to inflict the same pain on him that his actions had had inflicted on her. His choices the prior May had damned well nearly destroyed everything they'd spent years building: their friendship, their partnership, their allegedly committed relationship. Certainly, her most secret of dreams and fantasies of them were left in tatters at her feet. A moment of stunning stupidity on his part, six weeks of her fury and hurt swirling uncontrolled around her, and they'd nearly lost what they'd spent four years trying to find.

Dropping her elbow from the window frame, she grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand, guiding the steering wheel as the fingers on her right hand found her brow to knead it.

In only a week they were to celebrate their ninth month of marriage. Nine months during which she'd come to believe she'd found everything she'd ever dreamed of having with Remington and so much more. She'd finally stopped waiting for the other proverbial shoe to fall and had immersed—

She unintentionally yanked on the wheel, sending the small sportscar swerving into the middle lane of the highway and near disaster, the blare of horn from the car in that lane well-earned as the drive strove to avoid hitting her. She held up a hand in apology even as the reality of what she'd done sank in. Cutting the wheel hard right, she veered off at the exit.

"Oh god, what have you done, Holt?" she muttered to herself.

They'd been married nearly nine months. While Remington was more than happy to consider their 'first' wedding as an anniversary in and of itself, she'd steadfastly refused to acknowledge it as such. The farce of a ceremony on the tuna boat was just that as far as she was concerned: A ploy, a gambit, an act… but certainly not a wedding. No, the only wedding she recognized was the one held on a terrace overlooking the Aegean in Greece. Nine… months… ago.

Which meant Remington had been with her traveling the globe when Clarissa…

* * *

" _ **I gave up my old life, changed who I was, what I was for you.**_ _ **Bloody hell, even Felicia knew that I was off the market, so to speak, when she showed up a mere month or so after I'd arrived. Any idea of this, between us, being a mere dalliance… an amusing fling… had already been dispelled by then. What would you have me do? Seduce a bevy of women into my bed, then return to you right afterwards, to flirt with you, to court you, to try to win your heart?**_ _ **Did you really think I valued what was between us so little, that I would do that?"**_

* * *

"Oh, god," she mumbled again as the memory of that afternoon in Greece flashed through her mind.

Apologies were owed… very… large… apologies. Maybe even a bit of groveling would be required. She reached for the car phone then withdrew her hand, dismissing that notion from her mind. This blunder was too big for a simple 'I'm sorry, Mr. Steele' over an impersonal phone line. Her accusation, fully spoken or not, would have cut him to the core. Her impeachment declared she believed him capable of walking away from a child of his, would have dismissed the fidelity he'd been so proud of as nothing more than a falsehood… not to mention had indicted him for lying to her throughout their marriage.

Parking the Porsche at the curb in front of her old residence, she turned off the car and leaned her forehead against the steering wheel, a hand slapping at the dashboard. The phone rang again and she automatically reached for it. Her hand stalled. Now wasn't the time.

" _Damn_ ," she growled.

Climbing out of the car, she took a deep breath and smoothed her skirt. There was a client to check on. Only afterwards would she able to go to the office, draw her husband aside and try to right her wrongs.

* * *

Remington stalked through the doors of the Agency, sailing past Bernice's desk without so much as a look.

"Morning, Mrs. Wolf. I've an eleven o'clock with Monroe Henderson. Until then I'm not to be interrupted for anything short of an emergency." The instructions had been issued without breaking stride, and Bernice jumped when his office door slammed shut behind him.

Mildred poked her head out of her office, leveling a questioning gaze on Bernice, who could only lift her hands in an 'I don't know' gesture.

"I have no idea. He stormed through and said he's not be interrupted unless there's an emergency," she told the older woman.

"Mrs. Steele," Mildred nodded knowingly.

"That would be my guess," she said with a shake of her head. "It seems some things will never change."

"Oh, ho!" Mildred guffawed. "I suspect those two will be fussing and fighting for the rest of their days. As long as they kiss and make up afterwards," she gave a devilish wink, "all will be fine. Just duck and take cover until they do."

"Yeah, well, as I said, some things never change." With those words, she returned to the computer and the background check she'd been working on and Mildred to her office.

In his office, Remington paced and muttered to himself about the 'ridiculous woman' he'd wed, while threading a hand through his hair and swiping at his face.

"Bugger it," he blasphemed, before taking off his jacket and slinging it over the back of his chair. Petulant partner and wife or not, he had a meeting with Monroe to prepare for. Extracting a set of blue prints from the tube on his desk, he sat down and concentrated on reviewing his proposals for each store. He hadn't been working for quite ten minutes when the buzzer to the intercom sounded.

"What?" he barked into the receiver.

"Uh-uh," Bernice scolded immediately, scowling at his office door, "You can be mad at Laura all you want, but you don't get to take it out on me." Unseen, he held up a hand of apology.

"Sorry, sorry, Mrs. Wolf, my apologies."

"Murphy's on line two. He's been trying to reach Laura about the Morton case…"

"I'll take it, thank you." Disconnecting the intercom he punched the button for line two. "Steele here."

"Steele, Michaels. I've been trying to reach Laura for the last half hour. She's not answering in either the car or at the loft. Any idea where she is?" Murphy questioned. Of course, Laura wasn't answering the phone, Remington thought to himself. More than likely, she'd think it was him calling.

"I'm expecting her in the office in the next thirty, forty-five minutes or so," he told Murphy instead.

"When she gets there, tell her I to meet me at the new address I have for Jim Carstairs," Murphy instructed. He'd gone back to Carstairs' old neighborhood that morning and had spoken with the next door neighbor not at home the prior day. Murphy relayed the address to Steele as he scribbled it out on the paper in front of him. "How booked is her schedule this morning?"

"It's not. We've moved out all appointments until Thursday given the construction," Remington supplied.

"In that case, expect her to be gone until early afternoon. We'll be having lunch at the country club Morton said Marianne Madison would frequent every afternoon." Remington dropped the pencil in his hand onto his desk and sat up straight in his chair as a chill ran down his spine.

"Michaels, what is our clients full name again?" he demanded to know.

"Andrew Morton," Murphy answered, puzzled by the other man's tone. "Why?"

" _Knock on Any Door,_ Humphrey Bogart, John Derek, George Macready, Santana Pictures, 1949. Andrew Morton is a defense attorney who'd fought his way out of the slums into which he was born. He represents Nick Romano, a man who committed a robbery in order to secure the funds which would allow him to provide for his wife and the child they had on the way."

"We've already cleared Romano," Murphy provided, unsure where Steele was going with this.

"Who else?" Remington asked, voice rising. "Who else have you and Laura cleared?"

"Ed Carlsen, recently deceased," Murphy answered.

"Oh, god," he drawled, swiping at his mouth as beads of cold sweat broke out over his brow. " _They Drive by Night,_ George Raft, Ida Lupino, Humphrey Bogart, Warner Brothers, 1940. Alan Hale plays a man by the name of Ed Carlsen. Carlsen's wife murders him by poison so that she can be with the man she believes she truly loves." Standing, Remington yanked open the top drawer of his desk and removed the Agency gun.

"Steele, what are you trying to say?" Murphy asked, becoming alarmed himself now.

"Marianne Madison," he snapped his fingers in the air trying desperately to retrieve the information from his movie soaked brain. "The… The… The… _The Bad Sister_ , Conrad Nagel, Sidney Fox, Bette Davis, Humphrey Bogart, Universal Studios, 1931. A woman falls in love with a conman who later abandons her in favor of another." He began pawing through his drawers in some desperation. "Mildred! Bernice!" he bellowed at his closed office door. "Jim Carstairs. _Two Against the World,_ Humphrey Bogart, Beverly Roberts, Henry O'Neill, Warner Brothers 1936. When an old scandal is about to be revealed, husband and wife kill themselves rather than face the backlash." The door to his office was flung open as Bernice and Mildred hustled through it.

"What is it, Boss?" Mildred asked, panic edging her voice. Remington's tone when he'd hollered for the two women had made her blood go cold. She knew the sound of fear in her 'kid's' voices when she heard it and something had scared him out of his mind.

"The bullets for the Agency gun, find them!" her ordered.

"What's going on?" Bernice asked, concern threading through her voice.

"I'll explain later. _The bullets!_ " he insisted again.

"I'll check Mrs. Steele's office. Bernice, take the filing cabinets in reception," Mildred directed, ushering her out of the room.

"Steele, would you mind telling me what the hell's going on?" Murphy yelled into the receiver.

"Who else, Michaels? Are there any other suspects?" Remington asked instead, as he pulled on his jacket.

"Harry Hall. The husband of the secretary Morton had an affair with," Murphy told him. Remington searched for the answer and found it.

" _Men Are Such Fools,_ Warner Brothers, 1938. Wayne Morris plays Jimmy Hall, a married man whose wife is being pressed to provide her… favors… to Harry Galleon, played by Humphrey Bogart, if she wishes to further her career. Instead, she quits in favor of becoming a suburban housewife."

"Steele, spit it out. I'm not sure what you're trying to say, other than every name in this case is somehow tied to the movies," Murphy groused.

"Anna. It's Anna. She's set us up. Wanted to be certain I'd put it all together by using the movies of Bogart." Mildred shuffled into the room, bullets in hand, raising her hand to cover her mouth as she gasped.

" _Boss?"_ she asked worriedly.

"Michaels, get to the loft as fast as you can. Andrew Morton is nothing more than a fiction, devised by the woman to get one or both of us alone. For God's sake, hurry!"

Slamming the receiver down, he ran from his office and through the reception area as Mildred and Bernice watched, fear clawing at their guts, wondering all the while what had happened and what was about to.

* * *

Laura knocked upon the door of the loft, then waited for Morton to answer it. Thirty seconds passed and she knocked again.

"Mr. Morton, it's Laura Steele," she called through the door. When silence lingered and the door remained closed, she eyed the hasp. The padlock was missing, so he had to be inside. Grasping the handle, she gave the door to her old home a firm pull, and it slid open with ease on its well-greased track. "Mr. Morton?" she called again, eyeing the living room.

She drew in a sharp breath as she saw a pair of man's dress shoes peeking out from behind the couch. Rushing across the room, she stooped down next to the prone man, lying crumpled on his side, in a pool of blood that had formed around his head. Tentatively, she pressed two fingers against the carotid artery in his neck. She found no signs of a pulse, as her eyes continued to scan her surroundings. She gasped again, as she saw a second figure on the floor near her little secretary's desk tucked into an alcove by the kitchen.

Springing to her feet, she was kneeling next to the figure of what was clearly a dark haired woman and knew before ever seeking a pulse that the woman was likely dead as well, given glassy eyes which stared into nothingness. _Minor Descoine?_ Her mind stumbled trying to put it all together, even as her sensitive fingers confirmed lack of life. Standing, she walked towards the phone hanging from the kitchen wall to call the police. _And what do I say when they get here?_ she wondered silently. _Yes, he's our client. Yes, this is the woman who's been trying to kill Mr. Steele and I. No, I have no idea why the two are here in my loft together._ Picking up the receiver, her finger had just depressed the first of three buttons when a voice sounded behind her.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," advised the frigid voice, the British accent tinged with Australian clear. Her back stiffened as she hung up the phone and turned slowly around.

"Anna. Or should I call you Lydia?" Laura remarked calmly.

"Either will suffice for now, although neither will exist after today," Anna coolly answered.

"You set us up," Laura summarized succinctly. The woman answered with a smug smile. "How are Morton and the woman involved? I suppose I should ask if Morton is really his name to begin with."

"His name is quite real, I assure you. Attorney for my… roommate… in prison, actually." She laughed shortly. "Tedious little man, who offered to help me with an appeal. Walter abandoned me in my hour of need, thanks to you and your… husband… if the papers are accurate. But I found Morton's ties to _him_ too delicious to resist."

"Ties?" Laura wondered with a raised brow.

"Perhaps I should say ties to those dreadfully boring movies _he_ enjoys so. Humphrey Bogart, you see, played Andrew Morton, a defense attorney. I'm sure even _you_ can see the irony in that," Anna boasted. "It actually inspired exactly how I'd take my revenge for the two of you destroying years of my work."

"And Morton's involvement?" Laura pressed.

"I merely convinced the pathetic man that I'd fallen in love with him. Promised him a lifetime filled with every fantasy he'd ever had if only he managed to free me of the cage you and _he_ put me in," she answered with a quick tilt of her head and supercilious tone.

"But you didn't need him," Laura observed, as she took a tentative step towards the living room. "You had Anthony Roselli's help for that." A smile lifted Anna's lips.

"What a wonderful stroke of luck that was. A government agent who hated the two of you almost as much as I do." Anna turned slightly to keep the gun pointed squarely at Laura's chest. "I merely needed to promise to exact my revenge for Roselli to set me free. He even provided me a toy for my amusement," she indicated Minor with her gun.

"You and she were working together, then." Anna scoffed at the thought.

"You speak as though she and I were remotely equals," she denounced haughtily. "The little lunatic couldn't conspire her way out of a box, even with a pair of scissors to cut it open. I merely pointed her in your direction now and again, to keep things… interesting… until my plan was fully in place." Laura nodded slowly. "And now? She'll provide the role I always meant for her."

"You're going to make it appear she killed me, and our client just happened to be an unwitting witness," Laura guessed, moving closer yet to the living room.

"Nothing gets by you, does it?" Anna asked, almost impressed, adjusting her position again. "I must say, I underestimated you the last time we met. I was convinced your feelings for _him_ were unreturned. His tastes have certainly changed over the years, I must say. You're such a…" she waved the gun around in thought, "… mousy little thing. Who'd have thought?"

"Is that jealousy I detect?" Laura dared to taunt, as she eased her way further left.

"Me? Jealous of you?" Anna laughed. "Darling, had I taken _him_ into my bed three years ago, you'd never have been able to bend his ear. A mistake on my part, I admit."

"You overestimate yourself and his memories of you," Laura laughed. "Remington knows exactly who and what you are."

"Now? Perhaps," Anna agreed. "But then, it only took my mere appearance, a few gentle caresses, a decadent kiss, to draw him back to my side and away from you, didn't it? How does it feel to know you meant so little to _him_?" Laura's eyes narrowed at the attempt to make her question Remington even now.

"Did I? The way I see it, he chose me, this life, even then. Didn't he?" Laura challenged.

"And cost me billions in the process," Anna sneered bitterly. "Years of letting that wrinkled old codger have his way with me, of keeping Raymond happy in the process, so I could get my hands on that money. You and _he_ ruined it all."

"Killing me isn't going to change that," Laura pointed out, edging backwards now towards the open doorway.

"No, but he'll suffer the rest of _his_ days, knowing it was his betrayal that cost you your life," Anna gloated. "While I, on the other hand, will rebuild my life, quite comfortably, I might add, given the money I tucked away while with Walter. The old fool allowed me unfettered access to his private accounts in order to keep me happy." She cocked the hammer of the gun. "That's far enough," she warned.

"If you have Patton's money, this…" Laura waved her hand towards the gun, "… can't be about that, then can it? What is it? That he finally saw you for who and what you were?"

"Oh, I don't have all of his money, darling, not even a small percentage of it," Anna dismissed, bitterly. "A few million he believed I'd tossed away on trinkets and baubles. Enough to live comfortably for a little while as I plan for my future, but not nearly what I'd earned."

"If it's money you want, we have it. I'm sure Remington will pay whatever you ask…" Laura offered. Her temper twitched when the woman holding the gun on her laughed.

"I'm sure he would. But it wouldn't provide me nearly the same enjoyment as his knowing _he_ cost you your life," Anna smiled maniacally. "I'm afraid the time for talking is over, Mrs. Steele."

* * *

Remington pulled the Auburn over to the side of the street, not giving a damn if the passenger side tire was partially atop the sidewalk outside of Laura's building. Throwing himself from the car, he ran full tilt into the building, taking the three flights of stairs two at a time, praying all the while he wasn't too late. His every instinct had been screaming at him, as he'd sped across the streets of LA, that Anna was with Laura right now. Slinging open the door to the third floor, he ran down the hallway, his heels clicking on the uncovered floors and he slid on slick shoes through the opened doorway of the loft, quickly assessing what was in front of him: Anna, gun level and aimed directly at Laura's heart.

Laura's head yanked around when he stumbled to a halt, her heart sinking to her toes.

"Anna, don't," he puffed, winded from the run, while holding up a hand, warding her off. Anna scowled in his direction.

"Well this does put a kink into my plans," she acknowledged, irritably. "Figured out the clues, did you darling?"

"Clues? What clues?" Laura asked, forgetting for a moment the gun pointed at her.

"Carstairs, Romano, Madison… all of them," he panted, "From Bogart movies. Messages to me. _Two Against the World,_ it's what she'd say to me when I'd try to end us. _Men are Such Fools_ , telling me I was stupid to believe in anyone or in love." He leaned over, pressing hands to knees, trying to catch his breath. "I'm sure I wasn't supposed to figure it out until… after. It's why she waited until I'd been otherwise occupied to commence her plan," he managed.

"It was bound to happen sooner or later," Anna confirmed. "You never could stay in one place very long, could you, darling? It was inevitable you'd need to take a little trip, seek out a bit of your old freedom, one of these days."

"Let her go, Anna. Your quarrel is with me, not with Laura," he said breathily, standing erect again.

"There you're mistaken, darling," Anna contradicted. "Had it not been for her, you and Raymond would both be dead after a jealousy fueled play of gunfire, and I'd have Walter's billions all to myself."

"I betrayed you, not Laura," he pled, taking a step forward to position himself a step in front of Laura although still several steps from her side.

"At her will," Anna bit out. "No. Your appearance may complicate things, but given the authorities will eventually realize I'm quite free, a manhunt would be underway soon anyway." Her lips lifted in a smile. "Actually, this will be all the more satisfying. You, watching her die, those nightmares haunting you endlessly." She squared her body in Laura's direction, lining up the gun with her target once more.

"She's pregnant, Anna," he cut in desperately, while motioning with a flick of his hand behind his back, catching Laura's eyes. "I don't think even you have it in you to kill an innocent child." With a quick slant of her eyes to his back, Laura took note of the Agency handgun tucked into his belt, above his jacket.

"A convenient tale," Anna laughed. Remington reached into his pocket, drawing the site of the gun on him again, and pulled out a strip of paper.

"Her ultrasound from this morning," he held it out. Anna's eyes glanced at it then away, seemingly disinterested, although her lips lifted in another twisted smile.

"What a delicious flap," she mulled, keeping the gun on him. "I could kill you, in which case you'd die knowing you'd left your child without a father, as you were always determined would never happen." Her arms swept to the left, taking aim at Laura again. "Or I could kill her, and the rest of your days you'd have to live with the guilt of knowing you'd cost both her and your child their lives."

"That's not true," Laura disagreed. "There would be nothing for him to feel guilty about. _He_ wouldn't have pulled the trigger, _you_ would have."

"Laura, please," he implored, begging her not to draw Anna's attention to herself as he inched slightly closer to her.

"Well, I'm not going to just stand here while she shoots you," she shot back angrily, planting her hands on her hips.

"You bloody well will if it means keeping our child safe," he yelled at her. Too late, he realized he'd shown his hand to Anna and he watched as her finger slowly pulled the trigger.

"Laura!" Remington screamed, diving at her, grunting as their bodies hit the ground, while the retort of the gunshot seemed to echo through the loft. Laura's eyes had remained riveted on Anna as they'd gone down, and seeing the muzzle of the gun lifting to take aim again, she grabbed the gun out from under the weight of Remington's form, leveled its sites and pulled the trigger, then watched as Anna jerked and fell backwards to the ground. The hand holding the gun fell to the floor and she swallowed back the bile that rose in her throat at the thought she'd just killed another human being, even if us was to save their lives.

It took her several seconds to realize Remington's full weight was still laying across her as he panted, and only then did she remember the hiss she'd heard from his mouth as he'd grabbed her, taking them both down. Letting the gun fall from her hand and lay uselessly on the floor nearby them, she wriggled her hand back between them and pushed at his shoulder.

"Remington, are you hurt?" she asked, her voice rising an octave as alarm clutched at her heart. He shook his head, groaning as he pushed himself up on his arms.

"Grazed my side is all," he assured her. "Is—"

"Dead, I think." Her hand flew to her mouth, as the bile rose again. "Oh, god, I'm going to be sick," she choked out, pushing at his shoulder with her other hand now, trying to get him off her so she could make a race for the bathroom. "Check—"

Her words halted before the thought could be completed, as her mind registered in slow motion what was happening before her.

Remington pushing himself up to stand.

The look of shock on his face when his legs wouldn't support him and he fell clumsily to his knees.

The deep red stain spreading across the white-on-white shirt he wore beneath his suit jacket.

The smell of iron and gunpowder in the air. Iron?

Her hand that slipped in a puddle of blood as she tried to stand and get to him.

Remington falling to the ground and laying there, his blue eyes glazed, confused.

Anna rising to her feet, leveling the gun at Laura as she scrambled to get to her husband.

Another gunshot, and Anna falling, lying still.

Crossing the floor on all fours, she yanked open Remington's jacket, trying to find where he'd been hit.

"No, no, no… No, no, no…" she chanted as she searched. She sobbed as she couldn't find the point of entry, barely even registered it when Murphy knelt on the other side of Remington, helping her pull him up, both cringing when he moaned and sagged against them, so they could rid him of the jacket impeding their view. Finding the entry point on the right side of his back, she ripped open his shirt.

"Towels, third drawer down in the kitchen," she rasped to Murphy. Jumping to his feet, he bounded across the room and retrieved them, then returned to the kitchen and called 9-1-1.

Remington was unaware of any of it, as he fought to maintain consciousness. Even when he'd lived on the streets of London in the middle of winter he couldn't recall ever being as cold as he was now. His body convulsed from it, even as he stared up at his wife and watched the tears dripping from her eyes as she pressed hard down upon the wound, making him half-groan, half-scream. Bile rose in his throat at the sudden influx of pain, forced back down by will alone.

"Laura." He coughed her name, then arched against the searing pain that seized him due to the effort. With great concentration, he lifted an arm that felt like lead, to press a hand against her stomach, his glazed blue eyes asking the question he couldn't put into words.

"I'm fine, we're fine," she assured him, brushing his hair back off his forehead dampened by the cold sheen of sweat that covered his body. Murphy kneeled beside her, taking over placing pressure on his wound. Carefully, Laura lifted Remington's head up to pillow it against her thigh. "Just stay awake, sweetheart, just _please_ stay awake." Her fingers slipped downwards to stroke a beloved cheek, the skin far too pale beneath her fingers. She muffled a harsh sob, as she heard sirens from somewhere down the block. "Oh god, please hurry," she prayed aloud.

Remington's eyes darted back and forth across Laura's face, taking in the lovely amber eyes sparkling with tears, the cherished freckles, the full lips he was never able to get enough of. His body shuddered as he drew in a breath, trying to speak again. His lips moved, but only an indiscernible whisper crossed them, although his eyes conveyed exactly what he'd intended to say. She shook her head vehemently.

"Don't even think about it, Remington Steele!" she ground out, a hand swiping viciously at her tears, unaware of the blood, his blood, that had transferred from fingers to face. "It's supposed to be you and me for a lifetime, remember?" she demanded, her voice cracking. "You _promised_ and you've _never_ broken a promise to me, not about us. If you start now, I'll _never_ forgive you!" His lips quirked upwards for the briefest of second, before his eyes lost focus and closed as he exhaled harshly, shuddered again, then stilled.

A sudden roaring in her ears, a hand clutching her heart, squeezing it until it felt like it would burst. She'd remember those things for years to come.

She wouldn't remember her hands frantically pawing at Murphy, as she screamed a litany of "no-no-no's" and keened pleas at Murphy to do something.

She wouldn't remember the room suddenly filling with people, or her hands slapping away, scratching at the strange hands trying to pry her away from her too still husband.

She wouldn't remember Detective Jimmy Jarvis barreling through the door, only to come to a jolting stop while his eyes took in whatever horror had happened within these four walls that left three bodies scattered around the lower floor of the loft, and paramedics working over the fallen detective.

She didn't register the stunned look of empathy Detective Jarvis bestowed on Laura Steele, one of the strongest people he'd ever met, who seemed to have broken in the face of whatever had befallen them.

She would neither remember clutching at Murphy's shirt begging him to promise her Remington would be okay, it wasn't as bad as it looked, that he hadn't given up as it seemed nor the anguish on his face when he was unable to lie in order to soothe her.

There was only thought that would register in her mind with any clarity: _This can't be the end of our story. It can't be._

 _(TBC)_


	14. Chapter 14: It Couldn't Last

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If you are uncomfortable with such matter or under 18, please continue to chapter 15.**_

* * *

 ** _Another A/N: Gulp!_**

* * *

Chapter 14: It Couldn't Last

"Laura. C'mon, wake up, love." A voice gruff from sleep with alarm weaving through it pierced through her nightmare, prying her back to the present, as a large, familiar hand, stroked firmly up and down her arm. Dragging her eyes open, she bolted upright and searched the shadows of the room. Mirrored doors. Large screen television in the corner. The apartment. She was at Remington's apartment. A keening sound she didn't recognize as coming from herself rose from her throat, ending in a series of sobs that left her body shaking from the force of her grief.

"My God, Laura, what is it? Talk to me," Remington entreated, sitting up to grasp her face in his palms, turning her head so she'd look at him. Dropping his hands to pull her to him, he froze when she slapped his hands away and vaulted from the bed, wrapping her arms around her middle, all the while shaking her head vehemently at him as her tears continued to flow. Bending partly at the waist, the sobs shook her small frame, sending him to his feet and around the bed, stopping short of fully approaching her.

"We were married. We were happy. So happy. A home. _Our_ home," she babbled, then couldn't speak past the sobs again. She pulled in a long breath as her eyes darted around the room almost fearfully. She wasn't quite asleep, but not quite awake either, caught somewhere in between. "We'd just found out we had a baby on the way," she managed before she doubled over, moaning. "You were thrilled. Had been hoping for months…" Her eyes darted across the room, then appeared to see something. "The Earl. He was your father after all. You were just getting to know him." He took a cautious step towards her, holding up a hand.

"Laura, love, it was a dream… nothing more." She shook her head frantically at him.

"No," she wailed. "You loved me…"

"Do, present tense. I do-," he insisted, taking another step closer but she cut him off before he could finish.

"You _promised_ you'd never leave." She only shook her head at him again, then turned her head as though looking for an escape.

"I'm not going anywhere, Laura. Not if I've a choice in the matter," he tried to assure her. She continued on, as though never hearing a word he'd said.

"'Til—" A hand flew up to her mouth, her eyes widening in horror, even as the tears continued to flow. "'Til death, and even that won't be long enough with you,' you'd tell me. Anna. Anna was at the loft." Her eyes searched the room, then she moaned as though she was injured. Another sob was wrenched free of her throat, when Remington grabbed her by the arm and yanked her to him, locking her in his embrace. "She shot you. She shot you and you died in my arms." Her knees buckled as she held her hands out on either side of her. "I can still feel your blood on my hands..." At the memory, her stomach churned, and pushing herself away from him, she fled to the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Laura bent over the toilet, retching until long past the point her stomach was empty. All the while, she could hear Remington pacing on the other side of the door, pausing at regular intervals to test the doorknob again, while speaking through the door to her.

"Laura, let me help you…"

"Laura…"

Pushing herself to her feet, she stumbled to the sink, grabbing toothbrush and toothpaste.

They'd crossed that line three weeks prior – twenty-two days ago, to be precise – during their long awaited trip to Catalina. After months of exploring the slopes, neither of them had been prepared for 'what came next'. As she'd feared for years, when they'd made love she'd been wholly unable to keep her walls up, leaving her naked and exposed before him, in far more than just body. She'd been stunned to realize he was left equally as vulnerable.

* * *

Remington's lean form was stretched out over hers, her thighs clasping his hips, the tip of his shaft laying heavily against her entrance. Closing her eyes, Laura willed the words back, as she had so many days and nights before. She wouldn't be the first to say them, if he ever did. He'd told her all she needed to know with his touch. Even if he didn't love her, he cared deeply on some level, of that she was certain. It was there in each caress, every brush of his lips, every contented sigh and in the way he whispered her name constantly as they explored, exploited, every inch of one another's body.

 _Words, be damned_. She'd been celibate for more than six years, the first two due the lack of interest, the last four because there was only one man she wanted, so much so that it terrified her. But there was no fear now, only desire that made her ache to feel him a part of her.

She held her breath waiting for that moment when he pressed himself inside of her body for the first time, eagerly anticipating the fullness that would accompany his body merging with hers. His hands sought hers, tangling their fingers together as he supported the bulk of his weight on his forearms, ever the gentleman. His lips found hers, the kiss so tender it sent goosebumps skittering over her skin. When she at last felt him shift, and a hand slipping between them to carefully position himself, her body shuddered with need still left unsated. Then he stilled, dropping his head down so their foreheads pressed against each other.

"Laura… I can't… I want you… Laura…" his words stumbled, then faltered altogether. She felt his body tremble almost violently beneath her fingertips where they lay on his back. She tightened an arm around him, while burying another in his hair, pressing his forehead more firmly against hers.

"It's alright, Remington," she assured him, even as part of her heart cracked in two. He wanted her, desperately, she knew. He'd certainly made that clear for years. And, if she were honest with herself, she wanted him just as much. Friends, partners, lovers. It could be enough. At least he hadn't lied to her, said the words never meaning them. He respected her enough, cared for her enough, that he couldn't do that. Desire and friendship. It could be enough. It would have to be enough, because she wasn't turning back now. She voiced the thought aloud. "What we have is enough. Partners, friends, lovers." She stroked a hand down his back. He arched into her hands, driving his shaft forward, pressing hard against her. But still, he held back with rigid control. "I want you," she whispered.

He trembled underneath her fingertips again, shaking his head against hers.

"It's not enough…" he tried to explain, his voice gruff in his frustration. He trembled underneath her fingertips again, shaking his head against hers. "I… love you, Laura," he told her, his voice tight. "I need you to know… before… I don't want you to think… after… I do… Not because… I need to know…" The hands soothing him began to quake as her mind computed the words he was saying, and in an instant that crack in her heart healed. Both hands now buried in his hair, she let out a long, staggered breath.

"I love you, Remington," she managed around the lump in her throat. "I do. I have as long—"

She gasped when he thrust his hips, pressing the tip of his shaft into her, then stilled, waiting for her muscles to relax, pulling her hands one at a time from his head, and linking their fingers together. He shifted slightly to find her lips, brushing his to hers several times before locking his mouth over hers. She moaned into his mouth when he drew back, then thrust deeper, before stilling again. She willed herself to relax and sighed deeply into his mouth, before moving her head back so their lips barely touched.

"More," she whispered into the still of the room, wrapping her legs around his waist and circling her hips insistently. Her movement was rewarded by a groan from deep within his throat, and pulling back he thrust again, nearly burying himself to the hilt in her tight, wet, warmth.

"Ag seo caite, tá tú mianach," he moaned, then bent down to suckle the skin beneath her ear. "You're mine. You're finally mine," he whispered, his warm breath blowing against her wet skin taking her perilously close to the edge. She circled her hips, demandingly, then cried out when she felt his shaft begin to stroke slowly inside of her.

He shifted again, releasing her hand, so he could cup the fullness of her breast before his thumb began brush back and forth across the top of peaked nipple, the rhythm matching his movement within her body. Her feet slid over his bare bum, before her legs locked around his thighs. Her back arched, her body blissfully convulsing around him as she breathily moaned when her climax washed over her in wave, after wave, after wave. It was all Remington could do to hold back, to keep her from dragging him over that most sought after precipice with her as he felt every quiver when her muscles contracted around him, drawing him high and deep. Her climax had barely released its grip on her before his hips began to move again. He thrust deep and steadily, slowly picking up speed, pushing her hard towards the peak once more.

"Together," she gasped, wrapping one arm around his back and pressing a hand against the nape of his neck, drawing his head down, so she could suckle, taste the skin of his collarbone. His movement faltered at the sensation, then his hips began pumping harder, deeper, the strokes shortening.

"Is tu mo ghra," he whispered gruffly, then pushed to his knees, an arm wrapping around her back to lift her hips off the bed, as he leaned down to take a puckered peak into his mouth, pulling firmly. Her hands clutched at the bed as she ground her pelvis into him, shattering for a second time. Only when her muscles clutched at him, did he allow his own release. "I love you, Laura," he groaned against her ear, as he leaned over her again and he buried himself fully in her depths, coming apart within her. The feeling of his warmth, the twitching of his erection within her prolonging and intensifying her own orgasm.

"Remington," she whispered into the night…

* * *

Everything and nothing had changed between them after they'd finally consummated their four-year on-again-off-again but always longed for relationship.

They still bantered regularly. They still fought daily, often multiple times, both of their stubborn natures remaining true to course. They were still partners who, more often than not, knew what the other was thinking without it being said. She still found herself reminding him, every now and again, that although they were partners, she still owned the Agency and thus, the final decision would be hers. She still ran at night after work and on weekend mornings, danced and played the piano. He still played poker at Monroe's, fenced and partook of a game of polo every other weekend. She still demanded a firm line be drawn between personal and business, specifically no frolicking in the office and they still stole kisses behind closed doors. He still cooked their meals when they opted not to go out, still plied her with wine in front of the fire at his apartment, and would still draw her close and dance with her in the living room, for no other reason than he wanted her near.

Nothing had changed, yet everything had.

Their four-year long dance had ended, and they joyously embraced what it had replaced it. Sexual frustration had been supplanted by true, open, laughter filled affection. The friendship that had bound them together during their worst of times, only grew deeper. She no longer woke up wondering if this was the day he finally left. He no longer worried this would be the night she ended them once more and would send him on his way. For the first time in four years, neither felt the other had the upper hand in their personal relationship or feared they were in too deep. As for the rule limiting them to only Thursday thru Monday nights together? Pffffft. Gone. Wherever one lay their head down at night, so would the other, bodies entwined in one manner or another

The still talked nightly before bed, only now they did it with her head on his lap, his hand held within hers, her fingers tracing his fingers and palm as his hand toyed with her hair or lying face-to-face, as hands wandered, caressed.

Neither of them were so foolish as to believe making love, at last, had fixed all their problems. Making love had simply proved to be a catalyst: they'd been unable to fully give themselves over to each other physically with the walls still erected around their hearts. Those walls hadn't simply crumbled, but had turned to ash. They no longer hid from one another, because they couldn't. They no longer pretended to be callously unaffected by the others pain, because they were unable to continue pretending they didn't feel it at their core. They both understood they would never be the couple to say a casual 'love you' as a goodbye, or to say the words multiple times a day, or even each day. The words had been said, believed, embraced and neither felt the need to beat that particular horse with a stick. They'd be said again, someday, somewhere, they both knew, but neither concerned themselves with when or where. The simple contentment they found waking to each other in the morning, falling asleep with each other at night, spoke more clearly about what they were to one another than any three words could.

No, sex hadn't changed everything, but it was good. No, not good. Teeth rattling, earth tilting, heart pounding… amazing. Just as they were in sync with one another as partners on the trail of mystery, they were in sync with one another in bed. Any inhibitions were left at the door of the bedroom, as they completely turned their bodies, their hearts over to one another other, until they were lost in sensation and emotion. They challenged one another, pushed each other to higher heights of pleasure. Hard and fast to sate urgent need, fun and filled with much talk and laughter or intoxicatingly slow, their hearts as well as bodies merging as one, it didn't matter. Always, always, there was pleasure to be found, a completeness, at the other's hands. Neither had experienced anything like their lovemaking before, and they reveled in it, never taking a moment of it for granted.

They could both, at last, answer the question that had plagued each of them for four-years: What comes after?

Whatever they wanted.

Making love had only proven to be another beginning, just as their burgeoning friendship that first year had been a beginning, and their fledgling partnership their second year had been another. Not the ending they had both feared at one time or another, making them double step backwards before they crossed that line.

They made no attempt to define their future, but knew with absolute certainty they'd make their way there together.

Seventeen days of unadulterated happiness.

They should have known it couldn't last.

On the eighteenth day, she'd walked into Remington's office and found him staring out the window, a hand lifted to his mouth as he worried his thumbnail, a telltale sign he was deeply troubled. Closing her office door behind her and pressing the lock, she moved to the door leading from his office to the reception area and locked it as well. Stepping to his desk, she picked up the phone, instructing Mildred they were in conference and were not to be disturbed for any reason. Finally, she slipped between him and the window, and tilted her head back to look at him. Troubled blue eyes met concerned brown ones.

"What's wrong?" she asked. He only shook his head, never speaking a word, but with a brush of his hand towards his desk, indicated a sheet of paper laying there. Brows furrowing, she returned to the desk and picked up the letter he'd indicated and began to read.

The world as she knew it shifted beneath her feet.

They should have known it couldn't last.

* * *

 _ **A/N: Be Patient. It will all come together.**_


	15. Chapter 15: Dangerous Waters

Chapter 15: Dangerous Waters

"Lau-ra," Remington called to her through the bathroom door for the dozenth time, his voice making it clear he was becoming increasingly frustrated and alarmed. Reaching out, Laura released the lock, before turning back towards the sink, splashing cool water on her face, hoping to dull the redness of her eyes and to wash away the visible trails of where tears had poured down her face. Opening the door as soon as he heard the snick of the lock releasing, he stepped into the bathroom, turning her around to gather her in his arms as when she turned off the faucet.

"I don't think I've ever been so embarrassed. I'm sorry," she apologized, laying the side of her face against his chest, unable to look at him.

"Forever apologizing for being human," he scolded lightly, resting his chin on top of her head. "Do you honestly believe you're the only one to have the bloody hell scared out of them by a nightmare? C'mon, come back to bed and tell me about it. Only by sharing a nightmare will it be chased away."

"More words of wisdom from Marcos?" she wondered. Flipping off the bathroom light, he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and guided back into the bedroom. Once they were in bed, he turned out the light and held open an arm to her. She willingly tucked herself into his side, resting her head beneath his shoulder.

Over the last weeks, he'd shared more about his past with her than he had in the prior four-years of their association, combined. One night, two weeks back, he'd regaled her with stories of his time spent with the Androkus family as a child. Happy times. Safe times. Treasured times. The lessons he'd learned at Marcos's hands had bided him well in the years ahead, had helped preserve his innate gentleness and optimism, while he'd fought for survival on the streets. He'd stunned her with his admission that for a decade he'd returned to Greece for several weeks each summer to reconnect with the Androkus family. In his eyes they were family, their home the only place he'd ever thought of as such, until LA and Laura.

"Mmmm," Remington hummed confirmation to her earlier question, "Marcos, indeed. Tell me."

"It seemed so real," Laura whispered, shivering against him.

"All the truly terrifying nightmares do. It's what gives them the power scare the life out of a person," he comforted. "Tell me." Sighing deeply, she buried her fingers in the hair on his chest, concentrating on the rise and fall of the soft hair over her fingertips, the familiarity of him beneath her fingers comforting.

"We were working a case, and you'd been distracted the entire day…" she began.

* * *

Laura flopped down into the chair at Remington's desk and read the letter for a second time, then a third. There was no denying it. She'd made a mistake. She'd been so focused on getting Remington home from London, that she'd failed to pay attention to the details when providing the information for his passport. _Birthplace: Ireland_. "Anomalies," the letter before her read. _Anomalies. A mistake. A huge, glaring mistake_ , she mentally corrected. Remington's birth certificate clearly showed he was born in Los Angeles. A face-to-face meeting would be required in order to clear up the discrepancies, if not, a hearing would be held to determine if Remington Steele was, in fact, in the United States illegally and as such should be deported. _Deported, persona non grata_ , _unable to return to the United States to live, to work. Everything, personally and professionally, we've worked so hard for…gone. Him. Gone._

Dropping the letter on the desk, she did what she did best: turned off her emotions, turned on her logic. Without a word, she stood and went into her office, returning with the phone book. Sitting down again, she turned to the yellow pages. They needed an attorney. An immigration attorney. Poking her finger at a listing, she picked up the handset of the phone and dialed the law offices of Grant, Jacoby, Meyerson, Barcliff, et al.

"Good morning, this is Laura Holt with the Remington Steele Agency. We'd like to schedule a consultation for Mr. Steele with an attorney specializing in immigration issues… Yes, Mr. Steele received a letter from the INS questioning his right to live and work in the United States… Yes, _the_ Remington Steele." _Exactly how many men are named after a typewriter and a football team,_ she wondered. "Wednesday, 9 a.m. with Joshua Meyerson. You don't have anything sooner?... Booked up. Maybe he could move something around? Mr. Steele's interview is tomorrow morning at eight-thirty… Yes, I'm sure Mr. Steele can appreciate the constant demand on Mr. Meyerson's time… We'll see you Wednesday morning. Thank you."

Disconnecting the line, she stood and moved to stand in front of him.

"We have an appointment with Joshua Meyerson, an immigration attorney, on Wednesday morning," she informed him, as though he hadn't been in the room to overhear. Shoving both his in his pockets, he rocked back on his heels.

"We?" he asked, head still averted. The question made her brows furrow.

" _We._ Did you honestly believe I'd abandon you to this alone?" Her annoyance made her voice rise in pitch. Taking his hands out of his pockets, he walked across the room and sat down on the couch. Propping elbow against knee, he planted his chin in his palm, the fingers partly covering his lower face as he shook his head.

"I don't know… I don't know. It's a bit of what you've always feared, isn't it? I'd not only besmirch the character of your mythical Remington Steele, bring a pox to the Agency," he looked at her at last, "But disappear into the misty night after my… curiosity… had been assuaged?" Chin tilting up slightly, she planted her fists on her hips.

"Is that what you want? To leave?" she asked tightly. Jaw clenching, a muscle twitched in his cheek and he glared at her as he launched to his feet.

"Yes, Miss Holt," he snapped. She visibly flinched at the words. "I've finally everything I ever wanted. A line of work I not only enjoy but take pride in. A name. A home. The two of us really making a go of it," he lowered his voice, "The promise of the future." His eyes snapped fire at her again. "It'd only make sense I'd want to leave it all behind, eh?"

"Then why even bring it up?" she demanded to know.

"I was merely pointing out what _you_ eventually would," he retorted, pointing an accusatory finger at her. "That I've finally done it… blown apart this carefully constructed illusion of Remington Steele." Shaking his head again, he rubbed an anxious hand against the back of his neck. "I don't want to be remembered as the man who tore your life to pieces," he told her resignedly.

"Then _fight_!" she snapped, before raising fingers to brow and kneading. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath before speaking again. "I can't imagine after four years of living here… six, if we use the apartment as proof of residency… of providing a valuable service to the community, that it won't count for anything. You're an asset to Los Angeles, and I don't mean the mythical Remington Steele." Overwhelmed by the praise, he crossed the room to her. Grasping her hips, he drew her close, and leaned his forehead against hers. Without thought, she threaded her fingers through his hair before cupping the back of his head to keep him near.

"Thank you for that." She shook her head against his.

"I only spoke the truth," she answered, before releasing him and stepping away, her mind logically attacking the problem at hand. "I think we need to pull Mildred in on this. Maybe she has a contact from her old days with the IRS who could give us some idea of the information they'll be looking for tomorrow. If so, we'll plan, prepare."

"If you believe that's best," he acquiesced.

With those words, Laura swung open his door and beckoned Mildred inside.

"Mildred, we have a situation on our hands," Laura announced, plucking the letter off Remington's desk and handing it to their trusted secretary after she took a seat. Mildred had only read the first few lines before she lifted her head, face etched with concern.

"Boss?" her voice quivered at the single word. Remington turned to look at the woman who was like a mother to him. Lifting a hand in a helpless gesture, he turned to face the window again. Mildred looked to Laura who could only give the same gesture in return, not speaking until Mildred had read the letter in full.

"We need you to see if any of your old connections with the IRS might have an idea of what questions Mr. Steele will be asked tomorrow, Mildred," Laura requested.

"Oh, honey, I don't know how much help I'll be, but I'll see what I can find out." Standing, she hustled from the room, pulling the door shut behind her, to start putting the phone at her desk to work.

"Let's get back to work, Mr. Steele," Laura directed, wishing to take both their minds off the letter and its possible implications. "I have a lead."

With a nod of his head and a long exhale, he gathered up his suit jacket from the back of his chair and followed along behind her.

* * *

"You kept checking your watch all morning, enough so that it made me wonder why. When I asked, you said it was running slow, yet when we got back to the office you claimed you were late for a doctor's appointment and took off." She frowned, searching her memory for the details. "I saw you out my window. Pacing by the curb. Looking at your watch. Then a little red sports car pulled up." She stiffened against him. "Clarissa. The _hooker_. Clarissa was driving and when you got in the car you kissed her. At length." As irrational as it was, her temper was pricked by the memory, and she shoved herself away from him, rolling to the side of the bed to get out. Moving to his side and supporting his head with a hand, his lips quirked, clearly amused that she was now angry at him for something he'd done in her dream.

"Careless of me, wouldn't you say? Kissing another woman beneath the window of the woman I've been committed to for the better part of year? Hmmmm?" he asked, keeping his tone light.

"It wouldn't be the first time, would it?" she snapped. The comment drew a frown.

"What in the devil is that supposed to mean?" he demanded to know. Turning her back to him, she lifted her face to the ceiling and pressed a palm to forehead. Several seconds passed before she sighed and waved her other hand.

"I'm sorry, that was out of line," she apologized. "Seeing that, it just reminded me…" She shook her head and dropped her hand. "It took me a while to figure things out," she told him, picking up where she'd left off. "I was so wrapped up in the case, and aggravated that you were obviously up to something. I'd thought we'd come to an understanding about your… games, your ruses. Blood test, tux, rings. I found you at the Little Chapel of Perpetual Hope." She pinched the bridge of her nose. The memory of the dream wrenching her heart again. Remington drew his head back and gave back a perplexed look.

"Why on earth would I be at a church?" he wondered aloud.

"You were marrying the hooker," she choked out. "Your solution to the immigration issues you hadn't told me about."

"Marrying?" his eyes widened and a laugh erupted from deep within his stomach. "Ah, Laura, what an imagination you have. My 'issues' with Immigration, as you so aptly put it, have everything to do with losing _you._ It would seem to me marrying another would be the death knell." He held up sheet and comforter. "C'mon. Come back to bed, love." Heaving out a long breath, she climbed back onto bed, but lay on her back pressing her hands to her face instead of accepting his offer of an open arm.

"It seemed so real." She turned her head to look at him. "Why her? Why would the _hooker,_ of all people, come to mind?'

"Mmmmm," he hummed. "I have a theory on that. I offered no explanations in that dream of yours?" She shifted to her side, and lay her head on joined hands.

"You _rented_ her. As though that would have made a difference at the end of the day." He laughed quietly.

"I imagine it wouldn't. How was it you once put it?"

* * *

" _ **I would have had to hunt you down, tear your heart out and scatter it to the four winds…"**_

* * *

Instead of the memory of her words making her smile, she sighed forlornly and she looked at him with sadness dulling her brown eyes.

"In my own way, I did."

* * *

Remington and Laura arrived at the LA offices of Immigration and Naturalization Services ten minutes before his scheduled appointment. Although on the surface he appeared as cool as the proverbial cucumber, she could feel every bit of the tension emanating from him.

"Relax," she told him in an undertone. "It's not as though they're going to haul you out of here and toss you on the next available steamer." She sighed then mumbled, "At least not today." His eyes narrowed upon her at the last.

"If that's meant to be of comfort…"

"Sorry. I'm nervous too," she admitted. Mildred hadn't been able to come up with any answers and in the end, had recommended they get an attorney, which, of course, had already been done. They were facing this meeting at a definite disadvantage and her gut instinct was to see it postponed until Remington had an attorney to advise him. Yet, here they sat.

The door to the rear offices finally swung open three minutes after their appointed time and a man in his mid-thirties who look more suited to roaming a jungle in a flak jacket stepped into the waiting room.

"Mr. Steele?" the man inquired. Remington and Laura both stood.

"I am." The men exchanged handshakes, then Remington indicated Laura beside him. "My associate, Laura Holt." The man's eyes roamed Laura's slim form appreciatively.

"Anthony Roselli," he introduced himself, extending a hand. Roselli clasped Laura's hand longer than was either necessary or maybe even appropriate, a fact not lost on the man standing next to her given the slight raise of a brow. "If you'll come with me."

Shortly, they were seated in the man's small, cramped, sterile office.

"So, Mr. Steele," Roselli began, opening the file laying in front of him, "We received an anonymous tip that you are here in the country without proper documentation or authorization. Further, it is alleged that you possess multiple passports under as many as five different names. Care to comment?" Remington leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs intentionally conveying casual ease.

"Seems your tipster is leading you astray. I hold only one passport, the one you are currently questioning." A fully truthful answer given his five passports had long ago been confiscated by Inspector Lombard at Scotland Yard. Roselli rifled through the file.

"Your birth certificate shows you were born here in Los Angeles," Roselli noted.

"It does," Remington agreed.

"How is it, then, that your Passport indicates you were born in Ireland?"

"That would be my fault," Laura answered. "Mr. Steele lost his passport while we were working a case in London earlier this year. When he was temporarily inconvenienced by an injury sustained, he requested I assist in obtaining a replacement. I don't know what I was thinking," she feigned embarrassment. "I know perfectly well where he was born, but he's regaled me with so many stories of the years he spent in Ireland as a child…" she lifted her hands in a helpless gesture.

"I see," Roselli smiled at her, while giving her the once over again. He returned his attention to Remington. "Yet, we can't find any evidence you were issued a passport before now. Can you explain that?" Remington shrugged his shoulders carelessly and lifted both hands palms up.

"I know we're forever finding things misfiled. I can only imagine that's the case as I can assure you I did, indeed, have one," he smiled.

"By your accent, I'm guessing you've spent a lot of time overseas?" The question was anything but innocent.

"A goodly portion of my life, yes," Remington agreed easily.

"Got bored with Europe?" Roselli seemed amused.

"To the contrary. I simply found an… irresistible reason to stay in LA when I traveled here for business some years back."

"And when was that, exactly?" Roselli pressed.

"End of '79, beginning of '80 or thereabout," he answered, nonplussed. Roselli slapped closed the file and stood.

"Well, thanks for coming in. I'm sure you'll be hearing from us soon," he announced, while holding out a hand to Remington. Handshakes were again exchanged, and Remington lay a hand on the small of Laura's back, prepared to escort her out of the room.

"Miss Holt, if you wouldn't mind staying for a second. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions." Remington and Laura exchanged glances, but she nodded her assent.

"Alright," she answered, drawing out the word. Remington stepped out of the office and Roselli shut the door behind him, then leaned with a shoulder against the door, giving Laura a smarmy smile while letting his eyes roam her form openly.

"Have dinner with me." It wasn't a question, but more along the lines of a demand and caught her completely off balance.

"Do you feel that's appropriate given you're investigating Mr. Steele?" she volleyed.

"Investigating him, yes. You, no. No conflict of interest there." _You wanna bet?_ she thought to herself. Still, the idea of seeing if he'd show her the cards he was holding held some appeal. He took a step closer.

"You don't even know me, Mr. Roselli. Why would you want to take me out?" she asked, resisting the urge to move away.

"Don't tell me you don't feel the sparks, the juice between us," he oozed. It took considerable effort on her part not to shrivel her nose. _Do women actually fall for these lines? Ugh._

"My mind's been on the business at hand," she answered, unansweringly.

"One date and I'll lay money on it that you'll be asking for another before it's over," he pressed. _A wager you'd lose_ , she smirked to herself.

"Tomorrow night. Seven o'clock. I choose the place. We meet there," she answered impulsively. By then she and Remington would have met with Meyerson, hopefully giving her a good idea of the information she'd need to fish for. "I'll call you with where tomorrow afternoon." He allowed his eyes to roam freely one last time, practically drooling.

"Talk to you then," he agreed, stepping back and opening the door, smiling smugly at her. She waited until her back was fully to him and she was halfway down the hall before rolling her eyes.

Remington came to his feet as soon as she entered the waiting room. They maintained their silence on the way to the elevator, neither speaking until the doors slid closed on the empty car.

"Should I ask?" he questioned, breaching the silence.

"He asked me out," she answered with a shrug of her shoulder.

"I thought as much," he nodded. "Think he'll make it all the more difficult in light of you turning him down?"

"I didn't." He did a double take at the answer, then turned to face her, leaning against an arm propped on the elevator wall.

"My ears must be deceiving me, Miss Holt. I thought you said you didn't." His eyes narrowed on her.

"I did. I mean I didn't. I accepted the offer." His eyes turned stormy as he ran a tongue around inside his mouth, before his jaw clenched and he stepped away.

"I see. Here I foolishly believed we were done with the dance we've been doing these last years," he noted as the doors to the elevator slid open. "Apparently, I was mistaken." She scrunched her face as he departed the elevator in long, quick strides meant to leave her behind. Refusing to create a scene in the middle of the lobby of government offices, she quickened her own pace but made no attempt to catch up to him until she exited the doors of the building and descended the stairs. Automatically she turned towards the parking lot where the Rabbit was parked, but by the time she neared it, Remington was nowhere to be seen. Lifting a hand, she kneaded her brow with her fingertips.

"Damn," she muttered aloud while resigning herself to the fact she'd be returning to the office alone and would have no choice but to wait until he resolved he was ready to see her.

* * *

"I stopped the wedding, or at least I tried to. But you tossed me over your shoulder and locked me in the closet of a parish office," she sighed and blinked her eyes several times at the remembrance of how she'd felt at his betrayal. "You told me we'd laugh about it one day. Keyes showed up, tried to stop the wedding as well, but you were determined to go through with it. Ultimately, it was Mildred who put a kink in your plans…"

"She's always been very good about that, meaning to or not, eh?" he joked, an attempt to make her smile she knew. Instead, she flipped to her back and lay a hand against her forehead again.

"You broke my heart," she whispered. "After everything we'd been through, after how hard we'd fought to at least try and find a way to get past…" She shook her head her brows drawing together. "We solved the case, rescued our client but not before you sat by and watched the killer try to strangle me, drown me while you laughed."

"I can't say I care much for how your mind has portrayed me in this dream of yours, Laura," he stepped in. "When have I ever allowed a man to put his hands on you? And to sit by and laugh?"

"I didn't recognize the person you were myself… I didn't even recognize myself, if it's any comfort," she answered resignedly. "Yet, despite all you'd done, I agreed to marry you to keep you in the States because I couldn't imagine not having you in my life." He seemed to perk up at that.

"Ah, and we allowed ourselves to revel in wedded bliss, hmmmm," he smiled, then drew back his head, a perplexed look upon his face. "Although that would fail to explain how I ended up dead in this dream of yours."

"It was anything _but_ wedded bliss. You'd… created… the blood tests, the marriage license, and we 'wed,' if that's what you want to call it, on a tuna boat. You, turned out perfectly in a tux, while my hair was matted and I was still covered in mud from head-to-toe." She breathed out a hard puff of air. "You treating the whole matter as a grand game, while I was absolutely miserable. You didn't get it. You'd taken both everything I'd come to believe in and everything I had begun to believe might be really possible between the two of us, and destroyed it all in the span of a single day. Even worse, I was now trapped in a sham marriage and for the next two years I'd have to pretend to be happily married or risk everything I had: the Agency, my license and maybe even my freedom. All to save a man who saw me as second best to a hooker."

"Laura—" he began, only to stop when she held up a hand.

"I'm fine," she rasped out, but the way that hand covered her eyes afterward and the shake of her head said otherwise. "It was my worst nightmare come true. I hadn't been enough to make my father stay… or Wilson. And in the end, I hadn't been enough for you either, as I'd always suspected."

For a split second her face crumpled, but drawing in a harsh breath and blinking her eyes rapidly, she fought for control and won. Slipping a hand under her back, he wrapped his arm around her and pulled her to him, until she settled somewhat stiffly against his side, her head pillowed on his chest beneath his shoulder.

"You know that's not true. It was nothing more than a bad dream." He pressed his lips to the top of her head, before saying gruffly, "You mean the world to me, Miss Holt."

"The next thing I knew, the INS was demanding a honeymoon," she continued on as though she hadn't heard him, "And Mildred sent us off to Mexico, of all places, on our honeymoon…"

* * *

Remington didn't appear in the office until well after the noon hour, attesting to how angry he was. Laura was standing behind Mildred's desk looking at the computer monitor when he walked through the Agency doors. His footfalls stuttered momentarily, before he continued towards his office. Clearly he had expecting his partner to be ensconced behind her office door, thereby allowing him to avoid her until the one o'clock appointment with a potential client. Rapping his knuckles against Mildred's desk, he grinned at her.

"Afternoon, Mildred," he greeted her, then walked into his office and closed his door behind him, never acknowledging Laura.

"Looks like you called it, hun," Mildred observed. "The Boss is really ticked with you." Laura's eyes slanted towards the doorway, and she nodded slowly.

"Yes, well, I guess I'll have to go deal with it," she acknowledged slowly before straightening. "Let's try property records and a credit header background on Anderson. Maybe we'll hit pay dirt." Taking a deep breath and patting herself on the stomach several times she dug up her gumption from where it had gone into hiding and rapped lightly on his door. It went ignored, so she swung open the door, stepped into the lion's den and closed it behind her.

"Our meeting's not for another fifteen minutes, Miss Holt," Remington clipped coolly, while glancing at his watch, the Paul Fabrini persona firmly in place.

"We need to talk," she informed him. Glacial blue eyes settled upon her. _Was there really a time I enjoyed pricking his jealousy?_ she wondered silently. For a man who had been honest enough to admit he was unable to give anyone the kind of commitment she needed, he'd always been extremely possessive of her. It was a trait that annoyed, provided fodder to wound, and, at times, comforted.

"About the case then. Very well, have at it," he instructed crisply with a wave of a hand. Her lips thinned for a split second as she tried to control her own temper, which he seemed bound and determined to prick.

"You know I don't mean about the case," she answered as calmly as she could. "About Mr. Roselli—" she began only to be cut off.

"I believe it was yourself who laid down the rules regarding business and personal, wasn't it?" he reminded, abruptly removing his jacket. "Given we're at the office, it would seem the former applies." Releasing his cuff links and setting them on his desk, he rolled up his sleeves. "The case?" he pressed as he walked towards the private bathroom adjoining his office. Brows knitting and fists clenching and unclenching at her sides, she followed him.

"It's not a date," she tried again, then scrunched her face and qualified further, "At least not to me."

"Did the man ask you out?" He picked up his toothbrush and ran it beneath cool, running water.

"Yes, but—"

"Will the two of you be dining… or partaking of one another's company alone, together?" He squeezed toothpaste on the brush and recapped it.

"Yes, but—"

"Seems the very definition of a date, should you ask me." He set about vigorously brushing his teeth.

"It's not a date, more… business," she corrected which earned a raise of his brows. Spitting out the toothpaste he gave her a disbelieving look.

"Funny, I can recall any number of times when I was acting _purely_ in a _business_ capacity, only to be accused of pursuing what someone assumed were… personal interests. Millicent and Clarissa for starters," he accused, while rinsing and tapping out his brush. "Yet, I'm continually asked to stand aside while that same person, in fact, flaunts the pursuit of her… _personal interests_ … quite openly." Leaning over the sink, he splashed cool water on his face. Her temper roared to life.

"When have I _ever_ —" She couldn't even finish the sentence she was so outraged.

"Butch Beamis, Clay Platt, and Bill Smith each readily come to mind," he retorted, hanging up the face towel and storming past her.

" _Nothing happened_ with any of them," she defended.

"I'd dare say far more happened between you and they, than myself and either Millicent or Clarissa whom I never dated nor did _anything else_ with," he accused as he rolled down a sleeve and resecured a cufflink. "Now I'm being asked to _once more_ stand aside and watch while you paint the town and _who knows what else_ with yet another man."

"That's out of line," she breathed, unable to hide the injury his words had wrought.

"I thought we had an understanding. We were committed to one another, more so now than ever given we share a bed and, I thought, somewhat, our lives!" he bellowed as he began to pace. Her head snapped towards his office door.

"Will you lower your voice?" she hissed. "We are, on all counts!"

"It doesn't seem so from where I'm standing," he countered. "Would you feel any differently if I rang up… oh, Clarissa... and arranged a ' _business'_ dinner?"

"This is _ridiculous_! It's not the same at all! I don't care what Mr. Roselli thinks," she protested, tossing up her hands in the air. "This is _not_ a _date_ but an opportunity to get the lay of the land so _we_ can prepare. Why do you think I arranged for us to meet _after_ you and I see Meyerson tomorrow?" she demanded to know.

"I don't like it," he volleyed as his anger appeared to peter out. "Even you have to admit it's far too reminiscent to how you've reacted in the past when I or my actions placed this carefully constructed guise at risk, and, by consequence, all you've worked for." He sat down heavily on the corner of his desk, running an agitated hand through his hair. She let out a long breath, as her own anger began to wane.

"As you just pointed out, things are different now," she pointed out. "I am very much committed _to you_ , Remington, and not only that, _you haven't done anything_! You didn't draw the attention of the INS because of one of your ruses or even as a function of your past."

"Didn't I?" he asked wearily. "'The man with no name,' as you once so accurately put it. Had I a name, a birth certificate, I could have a legitimate passport in hand. Instead, you've placed your neck on the line by fabricating one for me."

"I didn't fabricate it. It's quite real," she let out a slow breath and dared to cross the room to him. "I used an old contact who owed me a favor." She lay a hand on his chest, relieved when he didn't yank away. "It's only a fact-finding mission, nothing more. I'll be home by ten at the latest," she lifted soft brown eyes to trouble blue ones, "and I hope you'll be there waiting for me." Grasping her hips, he pulled her to stand between his legs and lay his forehead against hers.

"I don't like it, Laura."

"I'm not exactly thrilled myself," she drawled, a hand cupping the back of his head, "But if it helps us keep you here, then that's all that matters." His long sigh told her he'd relented. Leaning her head back, she slipped her other hand behind his neck and drew his lips down to hers. Her lips caressed, wandered over his. Savoring the contact, she hummed against his lips when he deepened the kiss, pulling her closer. They both let out a dissatisfied grunt when the intercom on the phone buzzed.

"Never fails," he muttered and stabbed at the button with a finger. "Yes, Mildred."

"Mr. Bush is here for his appointment, Mr. Steele."

"Give us two minutes and send him in." With a final touch of his lips to hers, she backed away and smooth her palms over her skirt while he retrieved his jacket from the back of his desk chair then straightened his tie. By the time the door swung open, they were the picture of poised professionalism.


	16. Chapter 16: Cochon

Chapter 16: Cochon

Remington stroked a firm hand up and down Laura's back and arm trying to get her to relax.

"Everything went wrong from the very start. Our tickets were changed to coach. We ended up stranded at this dive of a hotel in the middle of the jungle. We had to separate, you going to the nearest town to get cash so we could leave the hotel, me remaining behind to 'secure' our bill." Shoving away from him, she left the bed, then the room. Grabbing their robes, he followed, finding her on the terrace, arms wrapped around herself looking out over Hancock Park. He held out the robe as she slipped it on, then after donning his own, slipped a hand around her waist drawing her back against him.

"What is it?" he asked quietly.

"I was chased into the woods by a group called the Malvados. Suddenly, Roselli was there, swinging in on a vine like Tarzan. Supposedly he was an archaeologist and witnessing what was happening, tried to 'rescue' me." She gave an undignified snort. "I ended up being shoved into the rapids and he dove in after me, not that I needed his help. I got out on my own. He escorted me to the resort you were heading to when we were separated. You were livid when I showed up with another man, but wouldn't admit to being jealous. After Clarissa, that just hurt all the more." She let out a shuddering breath. "For nearly two months, I used him as a weapon against you. Flirting with him, kissing him… in front of you. I hurt you terribly. I knew it. But you never said a word, but that look in your eyes was always there. After what you'd done to me, and I to you, I began to believe we didn't stand a chance of ever recovering from it all."

* * *

On Tuesday evening, they'd sat down after dinner in the loft and discussed their suspicions. Or rather Remington sat, while Laura paced.

"It's Keyes," Remington announced, emphatically. "Only five people are aware of the existence of those five passports: Lombard, Murphy, Mildred, yourself and Keyes." She didn't disagree with him.

"Because of the contract Vigilance is entering into with the Agency, I'd bet," she hypothesized.

"The very idea of having to report to me would drive the petulant prig mad. What better way to assure that won't happen than having me deported?"

"I want to wrap my hands around his fat neck and wring it!" she proclaimed vehemently, imitating the gesture with her hands.

"I understand the feeling. I wouldn't mind a shot at him myself, however—"

"It doesn't solve the matter at hand," she finished with a frustrated shake of her head. Reaching backwards, she kneaded at a shoulder.

"Come here. Let me help with that," he requested. She smiled when he looked both surprised and pleased by her easy acquiescence, and made room for her to sit between his legs. It was another thing that had changed in the recent past: her willingly allowing him to provide her comfort, relief.

"All-in-all, I think the meeting went well today, don't you?"

"Hmmmm, seems to have at least. But there's something about that Roselli chap I just don't trust. Other than the fact he asked out the woman who accompanied me to the meeting. Shows a certain lack of character, that." A corner of her mouth lifted in a half smile, and she laughed softly. Slipping out from beneath his hands, she turned around to face him. Holding his eyes with hers, she pressed a hand to his cheek and stroked it with her thumb.

"Do I need to remind you again that you have nothing, whatsoever to worry about?" she asked with a lift of her brows.

"Accepting that you'll do as you wish doesn't mean I have to like it, Laura." He lifted her hair over her shoulder and caressed her neck.

"Mr. Steele," she said with mock sternness. "There is _only one man_ that I wish to do _this_ with..." Hand cupping the back of his head, she drew his head down and she nibbled, teased and tasted his lips until he hummed. "Or this…" she whispered against his lips, before trailing her lips over his cheek and down his neck as her hand slipped inside his shirt to caress his chest. When she lathed that spot beneath his ear which drove him mad, then blew on it, his arms wrapped around her, and he folded himself over her until is lean frame stretched out over top of her.

"And this?" he asked, locking his lips over hers and accepting the implied invitation of her slightly parted lips. His tongue delved deep then retreated before returning to dance with hers as a hand skimmed over her hip, stopped to tease her sensitive waist then glided higher to cup a breast. Her back arched, as she hummed her pleasure. Ending the kiss, he leaned his back to lift his brows at her in question.

"Most definitely this," she agreed, tangling her fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth back down to hers. And she proceeded to show him through the language he most trusted _exactly_ why he had nothing to worry about.

* * *

"We didn't figure out who had changed our travel arrangements until it was nearly too late. By then, you'd already had a very public and very physical confrontation with Norman Keyes after, I found out later, he told you he wouldn't mind have a turn with me while implying I'd be open to the idea. You—"

"What in the buggering hell was Keyes doing in Mexico?" he asked, fury in his tone. "And he's damned lucky I didn't kill him for daring to make such a suggestion to me about you." This time it was she laughing softly as she nuzzled her head against his chest and stroked his arm.

"It's only a dream, remember?" He chuckled lightly behind her and noticeable relaxed. "You belted him and sent him over the balcony into the pool, if that makes you feel any better," she teased.

"It does, actually," he laughed.

"Unfortunately, you also played straight into his hands in doing so. When you returned to our villa that evening, you found him dead on the floor, obviously a victim of foul play. Given what had happened earlier in the evening, you panicked and tried to hide his body in an equipment shed on the beach. You were arrested, Mildred helped break you out of jail—"

"Mildred?" he barked a laugh. "Once more, I'm impressed with your vivid imagination." She shrugged her shoulders at the backhanded praise.

"Working together, we proved not only that you were framed, but that Keyes was still alive. Until, that is, he crossed paths with the Malvados and ended up dead, quite for real that time."

"So, is this now where we come to live in wedded bliss?" he smiled behind her. She blew out a long breath and shook her head in the negative.

"We came home to LA, where we were greeted by a letter from the INS informing us our marriage was still under scrutiny. We invited the caseworker to dinner, staged your apartment… or at least attempted to… to make it appear I was living there. But then Shannon Wayne made her inglorious appearance."

"Who is that?" he wondered.

"An old lover of yours from Hong Kong." He barked a laugh again.

"My god, woman, don't you think we've had enough difficulties with the one you've actually met? Hopefully she was less… troublesome… than Felicia." Another sigh from her.

"Worse actually, since I made her acquaintance when I found her in your bed. Yet another blow, after so many already. So, when Roselli showed up at our door, I decided a little tit-for-tat was in order, and kissed the man, quite thoroughly, in front of yourself, the INS caseworker and Mildred, then left with him, leaving you to clean up the mess…"

* * *

Wednesday morning had dawned bright and clear. Remington and Laura, like the day prior, arrived for the appointment with immigration attorney, Joshua Meyerson, ten minutes earlier. Unlike the day prior, however, they were ushered back to the attorney's office immediately.

"Mr. Steele, Joshua Meyerson," the handsome and genial attorney introduced himself, offering his hand. As they exchanged handshakes, Remington indicated Laura next to him.

"My associate, Laura Holt." Handshakes were again exchanged.

"Please, have a seat. Can I offer you anything to drink?" Meyerson offered.

"I'm fine. Laura?"

"No, thank you," she answered.

"So, what seems to be the problem?" Meyerson inquired. Remington extracted the letter from the INS from inside his jacket pocket and handed it across the desk. Meyerson skimmed its contents, then regarded the other man. "You kept the appointment for the interview?"

"I did," Remington confirmed.

"And the content of the interview?" Laura appreciated Meyerson's concise, no nonsense approach, believing it would bode them well.

"It was quite brief actually." Remington quickly summarized the questions asked, answers provided and the information they'd gleaned about the tipster.

"The answers you provided, they were factual?" Meyerson probed. Remington and Laura glanced at one another. On the way to Meyerson's office they'd agreed legal counsel would be of little use unless they were completely candid.

"They were not," Remington responded, causing Meyerson to lean back in his chair while studying him.

"Which answers?"

"All of them. I'm relatively certain I'm Irish born, but I've never had a true birth certificate. In fact, have no idea what my given name is. And I did, in truth, at one time possess the five passports as alleged." Meyerson thrummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, considering this information.

"Forgive me for asking, but how can you not know your legal name or where you were born?" Remington held up a hand then dropped it in a helpless gesture.

"From the stories I was told across the years, my mother died during or not too long after my birth. I was passed around between relatives, relatives of relatives, for near on ten years, each new family changing my name, at least for the most part. I ran when I was ten, and have been on my own since. I wouldn't even begin to know where to look for the answers, though I have tried."

"And the name you use now?" Meyerson asked, leaning forward, his curiosity tickled.

"A name created by Miss Holt, which I chose to use as my own and intend to continue to do so quite permanently, should she be in agreement." Meyerson leaned back in his chair again, scrutinizing both of them.

"That's quite a tale. Why I should I believe you're being any more honest with me now than you were with the INS yesterday?" Absent mindedly, Remington reached for Laura's hand, and equally without thought, she weaved their fingers together, clasping it firmly. With barely a flick of his eyes, Meyerson took note.

"As Mr. Steele and I discussed on our way to your offices this morning," Laura interceded, as silently requested by Remington, "We have nothing to lose by revealing the truth to you and possibly everything to gain. You're bound by attorney-client privilege, and we need you to make a decision on how to proceed with the full truth at hand."

"Good answer," he nodded. "And the five passports?"

"Used by myself to travel abroad for jobs, when anonymity was vital," Remington informed him, fielding the question this time.

"Where are they now?"

"We have no idea," Laura responded. "Inspector Lombard of Scotland yard seized them last September. I imagine they've been destroyed." Meyerson nodded slowly, then turned his chair to look out his window while weighing the best course of action in the case presented. Remington and Laura exchanged a long look while he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Meyerson at last swung back around to face them.

"Had we met two days ago, I would have advised you concede you were unknowingly, but factually, in the country illegally, and to enter a request permitting you to obtain a green card as you worked towards citizenship based on the merits of your contributions to the community. However, I have to question how successful we would have been in that pursuit given your lack of a birth certificate or even any significant background on yourself." He lifted a hand and dropped it. "As you do, in fact, have a birth certificate reflecting your birth place as here in the United States, a stance you maintained in your interview, I'd have to recommend we stay the course. It will be at relatively simple argument to make: the birth certificate confers upon you citizenry at the time of your birth. Therefore, the INS has no standing in your particular case." Picking up his pen from off the blotter he tapped the point several times. "Frankly, I'll be surprised if this goes beyond a final hearing which validates exactly that. Call me when you receive your next correspondence, and we'll proceed from there." Standing he offered Remington his hand, then Laura before seeing them out.

* * *

"I'm sorry. Last you mentioned, Roselli was an archaeologist in Mexico. Exactly how is it he appears at the door to _my flat_?"

"He followed us. And every time we turned around, there seemed to be a different story, different role attached to him: Archaeologist, INS supervisor, MI5 operative… spy. Let's go back to bed," she suggested, wanting a minute or two to decide on how much she'd share within about the time they'd spent in London and Ireland, which would mean inevitably telling him of Daniel's death. Given his belief in fate, providence, unseen forces, it would spook him, she knew. So, by the time they were back in bed, this time spooning, she decided to forgo that narrative.

"Go on," he urged.

"Somehow, we managed to work through everything we'd done to one another. We'd reached a point where it was either address it all or walk away and neither of us wanted to do the latter." Scrunching her face, she found herself unable to speak of their wedding. It seemed… _presumptive? No, that's not it. Like a hint,_ she corrected herself. _Not to mention possibly raising a topic I'm not at all prepared to discuss right now._ "Some months later, Roselli again appeared in our lives. We were due to close on the house we'd purchased in Holmby Hills, replete with a gourmet kitchen and movie room for yourself and a place for my piano. But before we could sign on that dotted line, Roselli had you ambushed by some men for hire while he kidnapped me…"

* * *

Wednesday evening arrived too fast for the both of them. Laura had agreed to meet Roselli at L'Ornate, where they would dine under the watchful eye of Pierre Fumar, former suspect and longtime favored restaurateur. Remington had watched Laura depart the loft reluctantly and with no few misgivings about the plan she'd devised, concerns he'd bombarded her with before her departure.

Surprisingly, Roselli appeared on time, although by no means appropriately dressed for dinner in a fine dining establishment such as L'Ornate. The tan slacks, partially buttoned oxford and casual jacket was more suited for dinner at McDonalds. From the time he was seated, it was clear he was far out of his element, staring askance at the menu written in French and the multitude of service pieces on each side of his plate. In the end, he pitched the menu down on the table and stood, holding out a hand to her.

"C'mon. Let's get outta here. The place is too snooty for my blood and I stand no chance of showing you a good time while we're munching on snails." She quickly considered the alternative – gleaning no information – and stood, although she didn't take his hand.

"Where do you have in mind?"

"There's a good joint a couple blocks over. We can walk. Watch the game while having a beer and burger, play a little pool after."

"Alright," she agreed then struggled for conversation as they departed the restaurant. "Are you a Dodgers fan?"

"Hell, no. They're nothing but a bunch of overrated, overpaid pussies." She winced at the crass description. "Cubbies fan, all the way. Do you like baseball?" She lifted a hand and dropped it.

"Sorry, die hard Dodgers fan. I grew up in LA." He slung and arm around her shoulders.

"I'm sure once I teach you the ins and outs of the game, you'll change your mind," he winked. "I used to play professionally, you know."

"No, I had no idea." She resisted the urge to bat her eyes and pretend to be star struck. Clearly, she'd be spending the evening with another misogynistic macho man, like so many others she'd run into across time. Men who believed women needed to be guided, taught, should be subservient, acquiesce to the man's far superior knowledge and presumable skills. _Me Tarzan, you Jane_ , she joked silently with herself. Government agent or not, that's precisely what the oaf next to her reminded her of, the only thing missing was the vine.

"We're here," he announced, his fingers digging into her upper arm as he swung them towards the door. She flinched, knowing he'd likely left a bruise, and if visible would require an explanation later.

Over dinner she let him control the conversation which consisted mostly of stories of his glory days, for as short a time as they'd lasted, playing professional baseball. Every once in a while, he'd stop, and condescendingly note something along the lines of 'that's called a double play because two men were out on the play' and by three-quarters of the way through the meal she'd added boorish and oaf to his list of irritating attributes.

"As boring as the job is though, I gotta admit I get a kick out of determining who stays and who goes. And the travel, it ain't bad either. I've acted as a liaison to European offices a couple of time now, so I've seen more of more of the world than if I'd made it to the bigs." He frowned as he noted the glazed look in her eyes. "You and Steele. He said you've done a lot of traveling?" It took her a second to realize he'd actually included her in the conversation and she gave a small shake of her head to refocus.

"I wouldn't say _a lot_ ," she qualified, "But a bit, yes."

"Berlin or Stockholm?" She shook her head in the negative.

"'Fraid not. London, Dublin, Cannes and a couple of places in Malta. Although during a tour with the Stanford Glee Club alum, I added a few more countries to my portfolio," she mused, her mind wandering to moonlit walks in Barcelona and tantalizing chocolate kisses in Amsterdam. _Now's the perfect time,_ she thought, then lay her chin in hand support by an elbow braced on the table, and sighed forlornly.

"What's wrong? Not having a good time?" He jumped on her supposed unhappiness.

"No, it's not that. Sometimes I'm just so worried what will happen if Mr. Steele is deported, I have a hard time focusing on anything else. What will I do for a job?" She looked up at him through her lashes, suspecting he liked to imagine himself the white knight to her damsel in distress. "There aren't many agencies that will hire a woman."

"I wouldn't worry about it, if I were you. We have to follow up on all tips called in by crackpots. Steele's birth certificate shows he was born in the U.S. That's really all that matters in the end." He shrugged a shoulder. "Besides, as much as it might piss me off, your boss is in good with some pretty important people who could make life unpleasant for us if we don't wrap it up quick. Short of us digging up something big on him, and it's not even worth our time, I'd bet he gets a letter in the next day or two saying the investigation's been closed." She feigned a loud sigh of relief accompanied by a perky smile.

"So my job's secure. Maybe I can get some sleep tonight." He raised his brows at her.

"Maybe I can help with that," he offered with a leer. _Not in this lifetime buddy!_

"Didn't you say something about a game of pool?" she diverted.

"Sure did. I'll give you a few pointers." He winked at her as he stood and indicated to the waitress to bring them two more beers to the back.

Laura intentionally played down her abilities with stick and cue, hoping to part company on a good note. She had the answers she'd come for and was ready to wrap up the evening. Unfortunately, Roselli continued his machismo ways, stepping behind her to show her how to line up a bank shot. Under the guise of positioning her body properly, he took the liberty of fondling a cheek of her bum at length, for which he'd accidentally received the butt end of the cue in his gut. Shortly thereafter, she began 'yawning' regularly, finally excusing herself for the evening. Clearly irritated that their evening had been cut short, he escorted her back to her car, still parked at L'Ornate.

"So," he began, stepping in too close, effectively trapping her between the side of the Rabbit and his body, "I had a good time."

"It was… _interesting_ ," she replied, carefully choosing her words. Pointedly, she held out a hand to him. "Goodnight, Mr. Roselli."

"Tony," he insisted as he took her hand.

"Alright. Goodnight then, Tony." Releasing her hand, he extended an arm on either of side of her, bracing himself against the side of the roof.

"Friday night?" he asked with a smug smile.

"I don't think so. We don't seem to have much in common. I'm sorry," she declined.

"We have this…"

With those words, he grabbed her by the waist and locked his mouth over hers. Her lips parted in shock beneath his, which he regarded as an open invitation, plunging his tongue into her mouth while pressing against the back of her head with his free hand. He ground his hips against her, as she struggled to free herself. Finally, she managed to plant both of her palms against his chest and shoved at him. Their lips parted with a resounding 'pop'.

"Stop it, Mr. Roselli. Take your hands _off_ me!" she demanded.

"You know you want it as much as I do," he crooned, leaning in again, lips already parted. Turning her head away, she drove a heel through his toes and when he reared back she slammed the flat of her palm into his nose.

"You, bitch," he bellowed, grabbing at his face. "I think you broke my nose."

Alerted by the valet that something was going down with Miss Holt in the parking lot, Pierre and two of his nephews rushed outside.

"Maybe it will serve as a reminder that when a woman makes it clear she has no interest, it's _not_ a come on but a _goodbye_!" she bit out in a raised voice.

"I believe you need to leave, monsieur," Pierre stepped in. "Adrien, Marque, escort the… _gentleman_ ," he sneered the word, "To his car."

"You'll pay for this," Roselli yelled at Laura, as Pierre's nephews each took him by an arm and began hauling him across the parking lot as he thrashed, trying to get away. At the threat, Marque reached up and popped him in the back of his head, hard enough that he saw stars.

"One does not threaten a lady, Monsieur. Especially one well-admired by our uncle." Pierre watched until the men tossed Roselli into his car then turned to Laura.

"Mademoiselle Holt, did the cochon… pig… harm you?" Closing her eyes, Laura tilted her face towards the sky and lay a hand against her forehead. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly, then faced Pierre.

" _I'm fine,_ " she insisted, resignedly. "And there's no need for Mr. Steele to know about this. Do you understand, Pierre?" He looked her over and nodded his head.

"I'll say nothing unless asked. It's all I can promise, mademoiselle."

"Thank you, Pierre," she replied, bussing him on the cheek then climbing into her car when he held the door open for her. The man watched, concerned, as she drove away.

* * *

"I'm sorry, did you say kidnapped?" Remington asked.

"He had me for nearly four days before you and Murphy found me in Mexico. Roselli fled while you took me to the hospital, but then, the following day came after me again. After that, we decided we needed to go somewhere that he'd little chance of getting to me again. We went to Greece."

"Greece, eh?" She could hear the smile in his voice.

"Yes. Roselli came after me a final time, but this time he didn't escape and was arrested for his crimes while on the island. Not too long after we returned home, we faced a pregnancy scare. It turned out to be a false alarm, but it made both of us really think on where we stood on the idea of parenthood. Surprisingly, we found we were both open to it. In the end we decided not to try to _get_ pregnant, but simply agreed to stop trying not to."

"A rather creative take on it the matter," he observed.

"Mmmmm," she hummed her agreement. "But I needed answers. Why had Roselli come after us in the first? Why had he, twice, tried to have you eliminated? There had to be more to it than his becoming obsessed with me when I'd used him to hurt you. So, against your clearly expressed reservations, we began to dig. Eventually we discovered Roselli had tried to pass himself off as the son of the Earl of Claridge, a while before you followed the trail of the watch to him. Roselli had made threats to see the Earl, Catherine and the Earl's son dead. It's why the Earl denied you were his son when we met him last fall. It was the only way he knew to keep you safe. With Roselli captured, the threat no longer existed and it was confirmed you were, in fact, Sean James, the son he'd spent more than thirty years trying to find." He chuckled behind her.

"So, I really was a royal bastard, eh?" Shaking her head, she wheedled free of his embrace, and turned on her side to face him.

"No, you were quite legitimate…"

* * *

Laura pulled open the door to the loft shortly after ten and found Remington standing in the middle of the floor not far from the piano. Given the strain on his face, he'd marked the time worrying about what was going on between she and the man from the IRS. Pulling the door shut behind her, she dropped purse and keys on the coffee table and walked straight to him, pushing up on her tip toes and wrapping her arms around his neck, burying her face in the crook of his shoulder and inhaling his comforting scent. His arms automatically enfolded her, a hand burying in her hair, keeping her near.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?" he asked, concern lacing his words. She twitched at the question, having spent the drive home trying to decide how much of the evening to share with him. She opened her mouth to assure him that all had gone well, but couldn't pass the lie across her lips.

"Nothing I couldn't handle," she answered instead. She felt him stiffen against her. This was one of the hazards of being with someone who was not only your lover but partner and closest friend: they understood what you weren't saying.

"Laura—" he began, but she shook her head and cut him off.

"I'll tell you after I shower," she insisted.

She wanted to wash the man's scent off her body, wanted to scrub her bottom where he'd fondled her until she felt clean again, wanted to brush her teeth until the taste of him didn't still linger in her mouth. Pressing her lips against Remington's neck, she stepped out of his embrace and after entering the bathroom, closed the door behind her. She stood under the hot spray of the shower until the water turned tepid, and, even then, only turned the water off so Remington had a prayer of a short, hot shower himself later in the evening. Taking her time, she pulled a comb through her hair then decided to leave the curls as they were for the evening. After brushing her teeth, she gargled with Scope. Only when she felt she'd thoroughly vanquished the man's presence, did she step out of the bathroom and go upstairs to the bedroom to dress for bed. When she joined Remington downstairs, he had a glass of wine ready and waiting for each of them. She curled up next to him on the couch.

"You were right. I shouldn't have gone."

"What happened?" She took a sip of her wine, pondering the question.

"He's a creep," she answered, voice rising slightly. "Arrogant, chauvinistic, believes he's God's gift to women. He spent most of the night going on and on and on, about himself when not offering me pearls of wisdom on baseball, shooting pool. What's all the more frustrating is he more or less confirmed what Meyerson said this afternoon: Outside of anything extraordinary being discovered, the report will be filed as unfounded, and that'll be that."

"Why don't I find that to be of comfort?" he wondered aloud.

"Because your instincts have said from the beginning that he can't be trusted," she surmised, then added wryly, "And, I have to say, once again I think those instincts are right." He raised up slightly beside of her, a frown furrowing his brow.

"Oh? Need I ask again, what happened this evening? Hmmm?"

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before." She leaned forward and sat her glass of wine on the coffee table. "But, I bruised his ego," _Among other things,_ she added to herself, "So I don't think we can say we have a friend in him." Brushing her lips over his cheek she stood. "I'm tired. It's been a long day." His eyes followed her as she climbed the short staircase to the bedroom and watched as she slipped into bed.

Standing, he emptied their wine glasses in the sink then after cleaning them, set them in the dish drainer to dry. By the time, he'd showered and joined her in bed, she was fast asleep. Still, a hand stroked down her arm had her turning to him, tucking herself into his side and pillowing her head beneath his shoulder.

"Thank you for being here when I got home," she whispered sleepily.

"Ah, love, as though I'd be anywhere else if you want me here," he answered, bussing her on top of her head.

"I always do," she muttered before dozing back off, earning her another swift kiss on the top of her head. Closing his eyes, he settled in to sleep as well.


	17. Chapter 17: This Can't Be

Chapter 17: This Can't Be

"Your mother and father were only kids themselves when they found out you were on the way, but they were thrilled despite the complications involved: he, tenth in line to the throne; she, a domestic in the household. They eloped. But after you were born, unwilling to allow you to be raised in a household where your existence was seen as a shame instead of a joy, your mother returned with you to Ireland. She died not too long afterwards, and you know the rest." He nodded solemnly.

"That I do."

"You remained in England when I came home. We'd been away from the Agency for too long and with the expansion of the offices beginning, someone had to be there to oversee them. I insisted you stay, as you needed time to get to know your father, as well as to deal with the conferences that were involved. Mother, we found out the last night I was in London, had been in the hospital with pneumonia and Frances was going out to Connecticut to stay with her a couple of days. I was enlisted to help Donald while she was gone and ended up catching the flu from the kids. I'd been sick for several days when Murphy tipped you off –"

"Murphy? Had he moved back to LA then?"

"No. Sherry's mother had surgery and the whole family came out. Since it was time to renew his California license, he asked if he might log some hours with the Agency, to stay current," she filled in. "I had sworn Mildred and Bernice to secrecy –"

"Mrs. Wolf? Also visiting?" She laughed, and gave him a rueful smile.

"No. She _had_ moved back to LA. I convinced you to allow her to return to her prior job, since Mildred would be concentrating on asset searches and white collar cases in preparation for her licensing."

"Once more, your imagination…"

"So, I had sworn Bernice and Mildred to secrecy: If they spoke with you, they were not to mention I'd been ill, because I knew you'd come home and you had far more important things than me having the flu that you needed to be concentrating on. But, Murphy sold me out and I woke to find you home…"

* * *

On Thursday afternoon, only forty-five minutes prior to close of business, a courier arrived at the offices of Remington Steele Investigations delivering an official notification that Remington Steele's presence was required in the INS offices the following morning at nine o'clock to answer additional questions regarding his alleged status as an illegal alien. The unexpected twist left Laura sitting down hard upon the couch in Remington's office, as he reached for the phone to call Meyerson. The attorney would meet the couple the following morning at eight-fifty-five.

The guilt had eaten away at her the remainder of the afternoon and the entire evening. Every instinct she possessed screamed that _this_ was Roselli's retaliation for her defending herself the night prior. The fact that Remington hadn't wanted her to go in the first place, only made it all the worse. By the time they sat down for dinner in his apartment, their individual fears of what tomorrow would bring had turned the room thick with tension. She hadn't failed to notice his eyes avidly watching her throughout the meal, but despite his concern she was unable to eat, and merely rearranged to food on her plate several times over. Finally, setting his fork down, he waited until her eyes met his.

"We need to talk," he told her directly. Her heart clenched, as she knew he was about to tell her his goodbyes in case what they both feared would happen the following day, did.

"I can't do this," she croaked, dropping her fork on her plate and shoving her chair away from the table. She hadn't made it two steps into the living room before he caught her by the arm, then slipped his hand around her waist, pulling her back to his front.

"Nevertheless, it still needs to be done," he told her quietly, ducking his head so his lips lay near her ear. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut, forced herself to nod. He escorted her to the couch and left her sitting there while he went and retrieved notepad and pen from the credenza drawer. Scribbling out a list in his elegant handwriting, her tore the sheet of paper from pad when done and handed it to her.

"The first is the number for a friend of Daniel's who lives near Dublin. If I should be…" he swallowed hard, "… deported, I imagine it'll be to Ireland. I'll stay there until I get the papers I'll need to travel. The second number is for Daniel's villa in the South of France. Once I'm able, I'll be going there until we can figure out how to fix this… if we can."

"Don't say that," she rasped.

"The last is the number to Elena and Marcos in Greece. Depending on how long I'm in exile, I may go spend some time with the family." Letting out a puff of breath, he swiped a hand through his hair. "Laura, if the worst does come to pass, we need to find out from Meyerson if he can place a gag order on the INS, preventing them from releasing any information to the public about my… departure. If he can, you'll be able to tell any clients asking after me simply that I'm out of the country working on a case… sparing the Agency any embarrassment. If he can't, I hope you know I'd have done anything for this not to have happened. I don't know if I'll ever be able to forgive myself should—" His words were cut off when she placed her fingertips against his lips.

"I don't want to talk anymore," she insisted. Her lips replaced her fingertips, brushing, caressing. He stilled at first, then with a guttural groan from deep within his chest, came to life. Grasping her head in both of his hands, he took control, kissing her deeply, exploring the depths of her mouth with a tinge of desperation. Abruptly, he pulled away, only to stand and sweep her up in her arms.

"I'm not interested in a quick shag here on the couch, Miss Holt," he breathed. "We'll be doing this properly. I hope you're well rested, because it's going to take a while," he forewarned, before carrying her into his bedroom and laying her on her bed. Her arms drew him down with her and she turned him to his back, straddling his waist with ease. Leaning down she stroked her fingers through his hair while her mouth suckled the sensitive spot beneath his ear. His eyes closed and his hands clutched at her hips in reaction.

"You're right, Mr. Steele. It will," she whispered against his ear. She smiled as a shiver coursed through his body.

And it did. A long… long… while.

* * *

"You took me to the emergency room the following morning. While I likely _did_ have the flu, it turned out I didn't any longer. It was morning sickness. After barely a month of 'not trying not to,' I was pregnant." Even in the dim light of his room, she was sure he could see the flush spreading across her skin. A check of his eyes and lips said he had, as his mouth was lifted in a smile and amusement mixed with… something else… was dancing in his eyes. "We were both scared, but thrilled none the less. Four days later we were at my doctor's office. October 25th. That was the date our baby was due to be born." Rolling to her back, she hid her face behind her hands. "I can't believe I'm telling you this."

"You don't think the idea of you and I having a child together one day holds infinite appeal to me? Hmmm?" he asked, lifting a lock of her hair to toy with it. She dropped her hands to stare at him.

"It does?" she responded in disbelief.

"Mmmmm. Doesn't it yourself?" he wondered, lifting a brow.

"I hadn't really given it much thought." Her brows furrowed. "It's not as though we've ever discussed where we see ourselves six months or even a year from now, let alone the length of time it takes to raise a child."

"I've spent a lifetime not looking too far into the future, as it was never anything I had much control over." He paused as Laura shifted back to her side so they lay face-to-face. "But I've found myself doing just that often enough to find it… unsettling. In every instance, be it six months down the line or a decade, it is you who I envision… by my side. It's been that way for a long, long time now, though I won't say how long as it might give you the advantage." He quirked a smile at the last. Reaching for him, she stroked his cheek and neck, but remained silent. "Now, how 'bout the rest of that nightmare, eh?" Her eyes turned troubled at the reminder.

"After the doctor's appointment, we went our separate ways: you to the office, me to the loft to check on a client. We knew Roselli had arranged for Anna's release, and with Minor DesCoine already having made several attempts on our lives and Mildred's, we'd taken care to stay alert. What neither of us had counted on was a client setting us up. When I arrived at the loft, the client was dead, as was Minor. Anna was there. I stalled for time, working myself closer and closer to the door. Then you were there. You'd figured out the clues left behind. You tried to reason with Anna." She drew in a gasping, painful breath. "You dove in front of me when she fired the gun. You… you…" She shook her head vehemently. "I can't," she choked out, battling back the tears that threatened again.

"I died," he finished the thought for her. Closing her eyes and shuddering, she nodded. Flipping to his back, he gathered her to him. "As horrifying as the nightmare was, and I don't doubt it was precisely that given your reaction to it, it was nothing more than your mind attempting to deal with all we've dealt with these last days. Roselli, for obvious reasons: You seem him as the catalyst of what you've always feared. Me, leaving. Clarissa, because of my stupid and careless comment about ringing her up for a 'business meeting.' Keyes, because it obviously he who is behind this all. The Earl because if I knew _who_ I was, perhaps we could have found another way out of this mess. And last, but by no means least, Anna killing me. If even only for the briefest of moments, she's the only one, man or woman, that you believed ever truly represented a threat of someone taking me from you." He bussed her on top of the head. "I'd like to think you saw marriage to me and our having a child together as a dream within the nightmare."

"You know I did," she admitted quietly, the confession no easier for her than relating the nightmare.

"Even if the unthinkable comes to pass in the morning, _I'm not leaving you_ , Laura. I need you remember that when those doubts of yours come creeping in, as we both know they will. Somehow, some way, we'll find a way to make it right so that I can come home to you." Despite her fears that they wouldn't she nodded her agreement against his chest. "This won't be like last year. You won't be left wondering where I am, if I'm safe, if I've returned to the old life. We'll speak by phone each day…" he drew in a staggered breath, "And it is my hopes you will come see me on occasion."

"You know I will." Silence drew out between them, before her strangled whisper reached his ears. "This can't be happening."

"Yet somehow it seems that it is."

* * *

Remington and Laura were greeted by Meyerson when they arrived in the waiting from of the INS office. After an exchange of handshakes, given the limited time they had, Meyerson plunged in.

"Don't answer any questions addressed to you until I give you the nod to do so, understand?" he instructed.

"I do," Remington agreed.

"Poker faces," Meyerson directed before stepping up to the glass partition and announcing they were ready.

The door to the back swung open within a minute and they were directed to a conference room where Roselli sat in wait of them, a file, recorder and a microphone sitting on the table in front of him and to his left a phone. He didn't bother to stand.

"Have a seat," he ordered, not even feigning congeniality. Remington took in the man's blackened eyes and the piece of tape over the bridge of his nose. With a raised brow, his eyes flickered to his partner who was doing her utmost to avoid his gaze. Pulling out her chair, he waited until she sat before doing so as well. Roselli depressed the button on the recorder.

"Mr. Steele, you stated previously you travel overseas frequently on business. Is that correct?" Meyerson gave a brief nod.

"That's correct."

"With Miss Holt?" Meyerson's lips thinned but he nodded again.

"She's my partner, so for the most part, yes."

"As Remington Steele, correct?" To this Meyerson held up his hand.

"On advice of counsel, I decline to answer." Roselli's lips lifted in a smug grin.

"Alright. Then why don't I just tell you what we've found and see if you have a response. In December of 1984, airline records show Miss Holt traveled from the United States to Malta, returning approximately ten days later. In both cases, she was seated next to one Jean Morel." Unconsciously, Laura reached for Remington's hand and he clasped it in his. Roselli's eyes followed the motion and his eyes narrowed. "In January of 1985, Miss Holt travels to Dublin, Ireland. Seated next to her on the flight to Ireland is one Mildred Krebs. On the return, Miss Holt is seated next to one Richard Blaine, while Ms. Krebs returns on the same flight but in coach. In November of 1984, Miss Holt flies to London in coach. On her return, she is seated next to one Douglas Quintain, while Ms. Krebs is again found in coach. In September of 1984, Miss Holt again appears on an overseas flight, traveling to and from Europe with one Paul Fabrini, while Ms. Krebs is found to be traveling the same flight but in coach. September 1983, Miss Holt travels to Acapulco in coach seated between two women, but returns with one Michael O'Leary, once again flying first class. Yet not once, in all these travels, do we see Miss Holt in the company of Remington Steele. Do you have an explanation for this?"

At a shake of Meyerson's head, Remington remained quiet.

"It occurred to me, given the tip that you had five different passports in five different names, that there might be more to Miss Holt's traveling companions than what it seems." Leaning back in his chair, Roselli's eyes met Remington's and held. "Then again, maybe she just gets around in more ways than one." Remington's jaw clenched and his eyes flashed fire at the insinuation. Only Laura's hand tightly squeezing his hand kept him in his seat.

"That's out of line, Mr. Roselli. I'm affronted by your what you're implying of Miss Holt's character when you have nothing but baseless suspicions leading you to cast such aspersions," Meyerson reprimanded. Roselli ignored the man, and continued to challenge Remington.

"Mr. Steele, it would appear you have more than a professional relationship with Miss Holt, is that correct?" Remington remained quiet at Meyerson's hand signal but the muscle in his jaw began to twitch. "Do you often send your girlfriend out to seduce another man in order to curry favor on your behalf? Because where I come from, that makes you worse than a pimp."

Remington stiffened in fury. First the man had accused Laura of being loose, now had relegated her to the status of prostitute. In a blink of an eye, chaos erupted as he dove across the table, grabbing Roselli by the collar and slamming him up against the wall. As he reared back a fist to plant it in the man's filthy mouth, Laura grabbed at his arm and hung on for all she was worth.

"Mr. Steele! He's not worth it! He's _not worth it_." Remington's eyes slanted towards her, and seeing her distraught visage, let go of the man and raked his hands through his hair, reflecting his angst.

"Laura," he entreated.

"Come on. Come, sit down." With some prying she managed to get him back to his seat. When he sat down, she remained standing, pressing her palms against the table and leaning towards Roselli.

"For the record, Mr. Roselli, I agreed to go to dinner with you _against_ the wishes of my partner. I did not, however, agree to be manhandled or battered, forcing me to defend myself, which is how you come to appear as you do now." Next to her, Remington began to come to his feet again, but she stepped back and firmly held him in place by hand to shoulder. "I have to wonder how your superiors would feel knowing you abused your role first to extract an agreement to dinner, then used force to obtain what you wanted contrary to my own wishes!"

"I'd like to see you prove that," he smirked.

"There were witnesses of your battery, if you recall, Mr. Roselli," she reminded him before retaking her seat.

"Is this true?" Meyerson demanded to know.

"Every word. I'd be happy to provide you with the names of the gentleman that helped remove Mr. Roselli from the premises where it occurred."

Roselli's face was painted with unmasked anger as he pushed a button on the phone nearby, then extracted a piece of paper from the file in front of him.

"Remington Steele, it has been determined under Title 516 of the Immigration Code that you are in the United States without permission and do not fulfill the conditions of section B of the Regulation of Citizenship Act," he announced as the door opened and two uniformed officers entered. Remington stood, stunned, when he was lifted to his feet, one arm at a time pulled behind his back and secured with handcuffs. "You will be detained until passage is booked for you on the first available flight to Dublin, Ireland. Take him," Roselli ordered the guards.

Remington looked at Laura desperately as he was being hauled from the room. Springing to her feet, she grabbed the arm of one of the guards.

"Stop! This is wrong. It's nothing but revenge on Roselli's part!" The guard shook his arm free. In the blink of an eye, she latched onto the arm of the second guard, while pleading with Meyerson to help. She followed the three men from the room, continuing to try to break the guard's grip from Remington's arm. "Do something! This is wrong and you know it!" she yelled at Meyerson only to find an arm wrapped around her waist, pulling her away from the guard while lifting her from the ground. Kicking and prying at Roselli's hands as he manhandled her for the second time in as many encounters, she could only watch as the guards pressed a code into the key paid and the door opened, sounding the drone of an alarm.

"Take your hands off me," she screamed at Roselli, "Take your hands off me," she continued to repeat…


	18. Chapter 18: Wait

Chapter 18: Wait

Laura was startled from her sleep but a piercing buzz filling the room and someone's hands grabbing at her shoulders, trying to remove her from Remington's bedside. Still disoriented, she struggled with whoever it was.

"Take your hands off me!" she demanded, trying to shake the hands free.

"Mrs. Steele, please, we need you to leave," a woman's voice pled. Being called by the name cleared the fog in her brain in a snap and she quickly took in her surroundings. Remington's prone form on the bed. Tubes and wires protruding from everywhere. His deathly pale pallor. The slightly blue tint forming around his mouth. A nurse lowering the bed flat, as someone else came running through the door pushing a cart in front of them. But it was the heart monitor that caught and held her attention, and the flat line there, where previously there had been a steady stream of peaks and valleys. Stupefied, she allowed herself to be led out of the room. Laying her forehead against the bank of windows siding his room, she could only watch as Remington's body arched from the bed, and a team of doctors and nurses worked to revive his failing heart.

The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours would tell the tale, she'd been told. It was hour nineteen. So, what did this mean? It was too reminiscent of the scene at the loft and in a flash, she was taken back there.

* * *

"Clear," shouted a voice from behind her.

"Murphy, pleaseeeeeeeee," she pled, tears unknowingly streaming from her eyes as she clutched at her former partner's shirt. "Please, not like this. Please." She kept repeating the words as a mantra, even as her knees buckled, and his arm tightened around her waist keeping her upright. She physically flinched when Remington's back lifted from the floor from the force of the electricity invading his still form. "Noooooooooo," she moaned.

"I've got a heartbeat… and pulse," a voice called out. "Let's press the saline, he's lost a lot of blood and get him loaded. Move it!"

The four EMT's and paramedics working on her husband were propelled into a whirlwind of motion. The only thing her mind could comprehend were those words, those beautiful words, repeating again and again: 'I've got a heartbeat… and a pulse.' It was only when she saw Remington's face moving past her, that she realized they were leaving with him. Shoving away from Murphy, she ran to follow. An EMT grasped her arm, halting her.

"I'm sorry, you can't ride with us. We're going to need every bit of room to work on him," he informed her. Jarvis stepped between the man and Laura, removing his hand from her arm.

"Miss Holt… Mrs. Steele… Let's get you in a squad car," Jarvis directed, violating any number of policies with his decision. "They'll follow the ambulance to the hospital. You'll get there at the same time he does." Murphy stepped forward and slung his arm around her waist, offering support beyond the physical.

"Let's go. I'll go with you." She could only nod numbly in answer. "Can you have an officer go by the Agency and let…" Murphy wiped at his mouth and drew in a staggered breath, "… let Bernice and Mildred know? Laura's gonna need a change of clothes. If Bernice can get my wife to bring me the same?"

"I'll do it myself," Jarvis promised. Thirty minutes away from the crime scene wasn't going to make a difference. The crime scene techs had already been called, and it would be hours before they made it through evidence collection.

Laura remained lost in her own thoughts as the squad car, siren wailing, raced through the Los Angeles Streets. Clutching her arms and rocking, she stared unseeing out the windows of the cruiser. If not for the effort to self-comfort, Murphy would have worried she'd shut down completely in face of the day's events. As it was, she was struggling to find the Laura of days past that had served her well. The woman who could stand in the face of any crisis, any emergency and remain icy calm. The woman who could so efficiently separate emotion from rationality, locking the former tightly away. There were decisions, she knew, she'd be asked to make and she'd be unable to if all she wanted was to scream, plead with God, to buckle to her knees and give in to the unfathomable pain that the idea of losing him wrought on her heart.

Those efforts went to waste when the squad car came to a screeching halt in front of the Emergency Room. As soon as the officer opened her door, she bolted from the car and raced for her husband as he was wheeled quickly towards the entry. Grasping his hand, she ran along the gurney.

"Don't you give up on me again, Remington Steele," she ordered. "Fight! I need you. _We_ need you. Don't let Anna win. She didn't take you from me last time, and she can't have you this time. _Please,_ " she whispered the last on a voice gone raw from fear. When she was forced to release his hand as they wheeled him into the trauma room, he'd never so much as twitched in recognition of her presence. She swayed as the daily nausea washed over her but caught herself in time. Seeing this, Murphy who'd stayed steady on her heels, gently clasped her shoulders and led her to the waiting room.

* * *

Detective Jimmy Jarvis paused outside of the doors of the Remington Steele Agency, staring at the name on the door while he took a deep breath, searching deep within to find the chutzpa to make the notification he'd promised to deliver. The Steele's had been a regular pain in the ass over the years, countless man hours by the LAPD expended when Steele had been framed by DesCoine and Saltzman, later on Holt's kidnapping… only for Steele and Michaels to go rogue… and even more hours consumed processing crime scenes where one or another of their suspects were found murdered. Still, he couldn't discount the number of criminals their efforts had put behind bars, for which any number of people wished to perforate them. And, finally, it appeared one had. No, he might have wished them a very early retirement to Tahiti at times, but never would he have wished what had befallen them. With a final exhale, he pushed through the doors to face a slim brunette sitting at what was once Mildred's desk.

"Detective Jimmy Jarvis, LAPD. Is Mildred Krebs in?" he asked, a bit impressed with himself that he'd managed to utter the words with a cool professionalism he didn't feel. Bernice's only show of emotion was the slightest widening of her eyes.

"She is," she answered succinctly then picked up the phone and pressed a button. "Mildred, a Detective Jimmy Jarvis is here." On the other end of the line, Mildred paled as her heart plummeted to her toes.

"Did he say why?" she managed to ask.

"Only asked if you were in," was Bernice's answer. She'd barely hung up the receiver before Mildred hustled out of her office.

"Jarvis," she greeted crisply with a sharp nod of her head, pulling the hard-nosed IRS fraud investigator persona out of her bag of tricks. She then stood, waiting in dread, to hear why he was there.

"I'm sorry to inform you—Mildred!" Jarvis grabbed at her and eased her to the couch when her knees gave way. Bernice jumped up from her chair, heart pounding and rounded her desk to join Mildred on the couch. They clutched hands.

"What's happened? Just spit it out," Bernice ordered.

"Steele's been shot—" he began.

"The Boss?" Mildred drew out the name as she began to shake. "Is he-?" she couldn't put it to words.

"He's alive, on his way to the Emergency Room but from what I saw…" he paused, and swallowed, "… I'm sorry, it doesn't look good." Mildred abruptly stood up, walked towards the office doors then back again, unsure of what to do.

"What about Laura?" Bernice demanded to know. Mildred froze in face, growing even more pale.

"Mrs. Steele's not hurt… but she's not… doing well. I haven't had a chance to speak to her yet, but three people are dead and Steele…" he trailed off.

"I have to go," Mildred announced frantically.

"Mildred!" Jarvis barked, making her still and draw herself to her full height, shocked that he'd used such a tone with her. "You need to pull it together. Mrs. Steele's barely holding on. She's going to need you to be strong." Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she let it out slowly.

"Right," she answered, all business again. "Does she need anything?"

"Right now, a change of clothes and whatever else you can think of so she can clean herself up. Michaels—"

"Murph? Has he—" Jarvis shook his head at Bernice.

"He's fine. But he'll need a change of clothes as well. Asked that I have you call his wife." Bernice stood and walked to her desk.

"I'm on it," she told the detective.

"Mr. and Mrs. Steele keep changes of clothes here. I'll go put together something," Mildred volunteered.

With both women in action, Jarvis left the office. There was a crime scene to go over, and the sooner he figured out what had happened the better, because he had no doubt the papers and news stations would pick up on the story quickly and he wanted at least some answers before reporters pounced with questions.

* * *

"Mrs. Steele?"

Laura spun on her heel to locate the source of the voice calling her name. At seeing the blood on Dr. Kerr's scrubs and lab coat and the serious look upon his face, she paled and her face pinched in distress. Taking her arm, Kerr led her to a chair, then took a seat next to her clasping a hand between two of his and patting it.

"We've stabilized him," he immediately informed her, " _but_ his condition is critical. The bullet punctured his large intestine, lacerated his right kidney and nicked the renal artery. They won't know until they open him up how much damage the kidney sustained or if it's salvageable. However, the good news is someone up there is looking out for him. The bullet has acted like finger in the dike in the artery. If it hadn't stopped where it did he wouldn't have made it here."

"How long until we know?"

"Hours for the surgery, I'd speculate. Days before we know how he handles all the trauma to his body. He lost a significant amount of blood which can lead to any number of complications." Without realizing it, she began to rock herself again.

"What kind of complications?" she almost whispered while blinking her eyes rapidly.

"Dr. Bennett will go over all of it when Mr. Steele's out of surgery." Lifting a hand he waved at a nurse, and pointed downwards to Laura. Nodding, the woman disappeared from view. "In the meantime, I want to take a look at _you_."

"You don't need to do that. I wasn't hurt. Remington…" She choked on the words, then drew a deep breath and looked at the man with every ounce of determination she could summon. "I want to be—"

"Mrs. Steele, I met Mr. Steele long enough to know he'd agree. His first concern would be for you…" He lowered his voice, and looked pointedly towards her abdomen, "…The two of you. Afterwards, I'll personally take you upstairs to the surgical waiting room." She was prepared to refuse when the memory of Remington laying his hand on her stomach, silently asking if she and the baby were okay flashed through her mind. Closing her eyes, she breathed out slowly and nodded her agreement.

Murphy stood as Laura willingly moved to the wheelchair brought in by the nurse.

"What's going on?" he asked worriedly.

"Nothing to worry about," Kerr assured him. "I just want to take a look at Mrs. Steele's vitals. I'll bring her up to the surgical waiting room on the second floor once we're done, if you'd like to wait for her there."

Murphy had no choice but to stand and watch as she was wheeled away.

* * *

Kerr observed as the nurse took Laura's blood pressure and pulse, relaying the readings to him.

"As I thought. Let's get a chart started on Mrs. Steele and order twelve point five mg of promethazine," he ordered. Pulling his penlight out of his pocket, he checked her eyes. "How are you? Pain anywhere?"

"No. No pain. Can we—"

"You're in shock, Mrs. Steele. Of larger concern, given your pregnancy, your blood pressure and pulse are high for the average person, which makes them very high for yourself, placing your body under tremendous stress. Stress experienced by the child you're carrying." He gave Laura a moment to digest the information. Dazed eyes flew to his face and blinked several times.

"Are you saying I could lose this baby?" The mere thought of losing the child Remington had put his life on the line to save was unthinkable.

"Prolonged stress is considered a mitigating factor in miscarriage," he confirmed. "The risk is low, but it still exists. I'd like us to try to eliminate that risk altogether."

"How?" she croaked "Until…" She couldn't say the words. Couldn't say she wouldn't be able to breathe freely again until she knew the man in surgery, the man who was everything to her, was out of danger.

"A little pharmaceutical intervention to begin with," he suggested. "A low dose of promethazine which will help take the edge off the physiological effects of the stress, which happens also to represent the greatest danger to the child you're carrying. As an added benefit, it will aid with the nausea you've been experiencing."

"I don't want… I can't sleep. I need to know as soon as…." She sucked in a breath. "…as soon as anything happens."

"The dosage I'm suggesting won't put you to sleep," he assured. "Some report feeling a little fuzzy around the edges, while others note with the decrease in the physiological effects, their mind feels more clear. After that, it's up to you. Yell, scream, cry, try some deep breathing. Use whatever tricks have worked for you in the past."

"Alright," she agreed. Kerr propped a hip on the corner of the gurney.

"When was the last time you ate?" he queried. Frowning, she concentrated on the question.

"Dinner last night," she finally concluded. Kerr glanced at his watch.

"It's nearly one o'clock now. Have you found success with any foods since our last visit?" The question cut like a knife as she couldn't help but wonder if Remington would ever again prepare them another meal.

"Remington's been…" she shook her head. "Yes. There's something in my purse."

"And where is that?" She frowned and shook her head.

"I have no idea," she admitted, as the nurse returned to the room.

"Shot first, then some saltines and tea. We'll get you upstairs, then if those things stay down, I want you to promise to try something a little more substantial from the cafeteria if your purse doesn't show up."

What choice did she have but to agree?

* * *

Mildred and Bernice rushed through the doors of the emergency room waiting room and spied Murphy sitting in a chair, head hanging, his face covered by his hands.

"What happened?" Bernice was the first to speak. Looking up at the women wearily, he held up both hands.

"I don't know. By the time I got to the loft, Steele had already been shot. Laura was trying to get to him when the woman stood up, aimed the gun at her. I shot her. That's all I know." He dropped his hands when he'd finished the account.

"And the Boss?" Mildred asked.

"I have no idea, only that from what I saw, it was bad. A doctor came out and spoke to Laura about an hour ago then took her to the back to be evaluated. I haven't seen her since. I told them I'd meet her upstairs in surgical waiting."

"Then what are we waiting for?" Mildred demanded.

"Sher…" He let the name stand for itself.

"I'll wait here for her," Bernice volunteered. "I'll bring her up as soon as she arrives." Recognizing when he was beat he stood up, then bussed her on the cheek.

"Thanks, Bernice."

As Murphy and Mildred left the room, Bernice sat down heavily on a chair and tried not to dwell on Murphy's blood stained clothes.

* * *

"Mrs. Steele!" Mildred exclaimed, when Laura walked into the room on her own power, accompanied by Dr. Kerr. Tears sprung instantly into the older woman's eyes, when she saw the woman she thought of as a daughter. Blood still streaked a cheek, and her pants and shirt were covered in dark stains. Walking swiftly across the room, she embraced Laura. "Oh, honey, are you okay?" she asked, clasping Laura's upper arms.

" _I'm fine_ , Mildred," Laura answered, taking a step back. Murphy eyed his partner, and was surprised to see she looked like the woman she always did, as opposed to the woman who'd just watched her husband shot and left fighting for his life. He wasn't sure if he should be relieved… or alarmed.

The promethazine was not a miracle drug, as her appearance might have suggested. Rather, as the medication had relaxed her body, she'd latched onto Kerr's suggestion and drew on what had gotten her through, at least eventually, the two greatest losses she'd faced until now: Cool, calm, detachment. It wasn't sitting naturally on her shoulders, but maintained through sheer will power alone.

"And the Boss? How is he?" Laura turned to Kerr.

"Would you mind filling them in?" she requested having noted the clothes laying across the chair next to where Mildred had sat. "I'd like to get cleaned up."

"Of course," Kerr agreed.

Laura found a restroom two doors down from the waiting room and locked herself in. Hanging the clothes on the hook on the door, she dropped the bag on the back of the toilet. Pressing her palms against the cool porcelain of the sink, she leaned forward and peered at herself in the mirror before dropping her head.

 _Breath, just breathe._

Sucking in a gulping breath of air, she focused on just that for several minutes, then with control regained, reached for the bag and rummaged through its contents. _Bless you, Mildred._ Kicking off her heels, she stripped all the way down, cramming each article of clothing into the trash receptacle under the paper towel holder. Using the washcloth Mildred had thought to include, she scrubbed face and body, removing any traces of Remington's blood from herself, before bending forward and scrubbing out her hair with shampoo and conditioner from their bathroom at the Agency. After dressing and pulling her hair back in a brutal ponytail, she shoved washcloth and towel back into the bag, then slung the bag over her shoulder and returned to the waiting room.

When she arrived, she noted the crowd awaiting news on Remington had tripled. Mildred and Murphy were now joined by Sherry, Bernice, Monroe, Jocelyn and Detective Jarvis, holding her purse in hand. Monroe gathered her in a hug as soon as she entered the room.

"Anything you need, anything at all," he vowed. She nodded against his shoulder.

"How… how did you know?" she wondered as he released her.

"I arrived at the office as Mildred was gathering things to bring you. Mick and I had an appointment this morning. I was running behind. I can't help but believe if I'd been on time—" She held up a hand.

"It wouldn't have made a difference. Remington was at the loft by then. But there is something you can do for me now, if you wouldn't mind. Normally, I'd ask Mildred," her eyes drifted across the room to the distraught woman, "But I can't. Not now."

"However I might be of assistance." Stepping away, she approached Jarvis.

"May I?" She asked, indicating her purse. He seemed surprised he still had it.

"Yeah, yeah, sorry," he apologized, handing it to her. "Mrs. Steele," he shuffled his feet, "I know it's not a great time and all, but we need to go over what happened in your place—"

"My former home," she corrected. "Later. I know you have an investigation to conduct…The only thing that matters to me is… Not right now." With that, she walked away, dismissing him from her mind. She pulled her address book out of her purse as she rejoined Monroe.

"Remington's father, Thomas Fitzgerald," she flipped through the little book. "He needs… he needs to know. If he wants to come, tell him he and Catherine are welcome to use Remington's old place. It has a good kitchen," her voice quivered. Swallowing hard, she forced the emotion back. "He likes to cook, it relaxes him, like Remington. The building is secure so he and Catherine will have privacy." She dog eared the page in the address book then flipped backwards towards the front of the book. "Elena and Marcos Androkus. You know who they are to him. He's Xenos to them. I imagine they'll be on the next flight out. They can stay at the house." She turned the pages again. "Frances. She needs to know before she sees it on the news. But don't tell her, you know how she gets. Try Donald's number at work first. Ask him to let my mother know as well. Tell them not to come to the hospital. I can't… I can't…" Looking away she blinked several times, then taking her wallet from her purse, extracted the Agency credit card and tried to hand it to him. He waved it away.

"I will see to it. I imagine Mick has your home well stocked with provisions?" She nodded her head in confirmation. "If his father comes, he'll need the kitchen stocked. I'll have one of my men see to it, with Jocelyn's guidance, of course."

"Thank you," she breathed. Monroe gave her another hug.

"It's our way," he told her gruffly, then left in search of a pay phone.

After a round of hugs and good thoughts from Jocelyn, Bernice and Sherry, Laura wearily made her way to a chair in the corner of the waiting room where she popped a sugar coated ginger drop into her mouth, mindful of Kerr's advice. Closing her eyes, she leaned her head back against the wall.

 _Breathe, just breathe._

Across the room, Sherry and Murphy observed Laura. Murphy had gratefully accepted the change of clothes Shery had brought him, and, like Laura, had thrown away the clothes stained with Remington's blood.

"Laura seems to be calm right now, at least relative to what's going on," Sherry noted.

"Too calm, maybe," Murphy worried. "You didn't see her, Sher, at the loft, after… She was a wreck, hysterical…"

"I imagine she would be after witnessing what she did," Sherry remarked, thoughtfully. "Give her time, Murph. Her emotions are likely to rollercoaster. You said she was seen by a doctor?" He nodded confirmation. "I'm betting she was given something to help." She let her eyes rove over him, noting his drawn eyes, haggard face. "How are _you_ doing?"

"I've been better," he answered rubbing at the back of his neck. "I killed someone, Sher. I didn't have a choice, but still… Then Steele…" He shook his head, then a thought came unbidden to his mind.

* * *

" _ **I'm okay… we're okay…"**_

* * *

"I think Laura's pregnant…" he informed her in a low voice. "She hasn't said anything, but after Steele was shot, she assured him 'we're' okay." To her credit, she didn't turn her head, only allowed her eyes to drift in Laura's direction before they returned to her husband.

"If she is, and hasn't told anyone, you can't bring it up either," she advised. "Keep an eye on her. But take time for yourself, too. Get yourself something to eat. After the boys are in bed, I'll bring you dinner, but right now I have to get back. They're too much for Mom and Dad right now."

"I know. Thanks for bringing me a change." Pressing a kiss to her lips, he watched her leave, then joined Laura in the chair next to her.

Mildred had taken the seat to her other side, and had one of Laura's hands clutched in her own. Bernice and Jocelyn sat across from the pair, both silent, their faces strained with worry. Without thought, he slung an arm around Laura's shoulder and gave her what passed as a hug. She looked up at him with brown eyes dulled with grief and pain.

"Murph…"

"I know, pal. I know." It was the only word spoken between them. She rested her head against his shoulder and continued to stare at the clock across the room. All that could be done now was wait.

 _Breathe, just breathe._


	19. Chapter 19: Just Breathe

Chapter 19: Just Breathe

"Mrs. Steele?" A tall, slim, gray haired man wearing scrubs with a mask hanging around his neck was standing in the doorway. Laura leaped to her feet, and strode quickly across the room, Murphy, Bernice, Mildred, Monroe and Jocelyn following in her wake. Four hours and seventeen minutes had elapsed from the time Dr. Kerr had advised Remington was taken up to surgery. Four endless hours that felt as though they'd stretched across days, each minute elapsing another minute they'd never be able to recapture… if only they were given the case.

"Dr. Bennett," he introduced himself. "Mr. Steele made it through surgery. We've repaired the puncture in the large intestine and have closed the laceration to the renal artery. His right kidney sustained some damage, but we've decided to leave it in place. If it fails to heal, he may lose it." Laura swayed slightly on her feet at the news, prompting Murphy to step forward and wrap an arm around her waist to offer support.

"Is he going to… make it?" She forced the question past her lips.

"We're hopeful. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will tell the tale. Given the nature of his injuries we have to be concerned with possible…complications." She latched on to the word, her heart plummeting to her toes as it had when Kerr used words very similar.

"What type of complications?" she managed to ask, her voice raw.

"Peritonitis – inflammation of the abdominal cavity – due to the ruptured intestine. Of greater concern, complications arising from the significant amount of blood he lost, replaced by transfusion," he explained then expounded, "Thrombocytopenia, disseminated intravascular coagulation, hypocalcaemia, hyperkalaemia, metabolic alkalosis. We could see none of these situations arise, one or a combination of two or more. We can only monitor him while taking a wait-and-see approach, for the most part. We've started him on a course of prophylactic antibiotics through his IV, an attempt to stave off peritonitis. His blood will be regularly drawn, urine output monitored. As of right now, however, he is stable. He's breathing on his own which plays in his favor, as a respirator is accompanied by risks of its own."

"When can I see him?"

"He's being moved to surgical intensive care, where he'll remain for at least the next several days as we monitor him. He should be settled within the next twenty to thirty minutes. I'll have a nurse come get you when the coast is clear." Laura closed her eyes and nodded her head.

"Thank you, Dr. Bennett," she offered her hand. "Thank you."

"It was my pleasure. We'll speak again soon." Releasing her hand, he left the room.

Mildred grabbed her and pulled her into a hug.

"He's going to be okay, Mrs. Steele," Mildred told her, the relief in her voice clear. _That's not what the doctor said,_ Laura thought to herself. _Hopeful. He said hopeful. Meaning it may not be okay at all._ She didn't have the heart to say those words to the woman who was embracing her.

 _Breath, just breathe._

* * *

Laura stutter stepped as she entered Remington's room proceeding the nurse who had come to get her. Her eyes took in the wires leading from his chest to the heart monitor; the two IV's hanging from a pole, leading to his arm; the urine collection bag; the pulse ox monitor clipped to his finger; and the large expanse of his abdomen and side covered in pristine white surgical dressing, spattered with dark blotches of red. What little color her partner, closest friend and husband had during the cool winter months had been replaced with a sallow pallor, his lips so pale they nearly blended with his skin. Tentatively, she stepped to him, laying her lips against his too cool forehead, allowing them to linger there, as her hand stroked his hair, which stuck up at varying angles.

She eased the only chair in the room up next to his bedside, squeezing between his bed and the wall, and took his hand in hers, lifting it to her mouth and pressing lips to a palm devoid of the warmth she always associated with his hands. Despite her resolve, a drop of moisture escaped beneath her lashes, as her fingers traced a familiar path up and down his long, elegant fingers.

He'd hate it, all of it, she knew. Being tethered to a bevy of medical equipment, by their very nature restricting his ability to get up and leave at will. The catheter he'd see as an affront to his dignity, not to mention his pride, its very presence suggesting he was not in control of even the most elemental of bodily functions. Her fingers paused in motion, as she recognized his most cherished of possessions had been taken from him without his permission.

"His wedding band," she uttered huskily, "Where is it?"

"You'll find all his personal property in the bottom drawer of the nightstand," the kindly nurse supplied, indicating the piece of furniture to Laura's right. "I'll just leave the two of you alone," she excused herself, then left the room.

Closing her eyes, she held Remington's palm to her cheek, leaning into it.

"Remington Steele, you spent four years fighting for this. Don't you dare leave now when we've finally found it," she whispered gruffly, a harsh sob escaping past her lips before she could muffle it. She fought it back, focusing on the fact he was here with her now, even if those blue eyes remained closed instead of sparkling with mirth and mischief, even if those lips remained straight, rather than tilting upwards the lopsided smile which graced his face whenever pleasantly flummoxed or tickled by the way he'd teased her.

Minutes passed by before she forced herself to her feet and leaned over to brush his hair off his forehead. Tapping two kisses against it, she leaned down and lay her lips near his ear.

"I'll be right back, sweetheart," she murmured. With a final kiss pressed against his cheek, she retrieved the bag of his personal belongings from the drawer then left the room. There was Mildred and Monroe to consider, but as soon as they'd had their opportunity to assure themselves Remington was still there with them, she vowed she wouldn't be pried from his side again.

With Remington out of surgery, the group had moved to the surgical ICU waiting room. Laura sat down in a corner of the room by herself, and opened the bag then quickly closed it again, shutting her eyes as her heartbeat escalated wildly.

 _Breathe, just breathe._

Reopening the bag, she pulled out an envelope and set it aside, then lifted out the first Remington's shoes, then his bloodstained slacks. Her stomach lurched at the sight. Shoving the shoes back in the bag, she tossed it to the floor.

Across the room three pairs of eyes silently kept watch over her, prepared to breech the privacy she'd sought out, if need be.

* * *

Mildred bustled into Remington's room, then gasped as her feet came to a screeching halt. When the surgeon had said Remington was stable, she hadn't precisely expected to find him awake and bestowing the smile on her that he greeted her with each morning but _this_ hadn't even occurred to her. He was too still. Too pale. Too absent.

"Oh, Boss," she whispered as she tentatively stepped towards his bed and clasped his hand in hers. After years of having to manage to mercurial temperaments and moods of her two kids, Mildred knew when a soft touch was required and when marching orders needed to be given. Now, was definitely not the time for the former.

"Now you listen here, Boss. None of us have time for this nonsense. Mrs. Steele is coming out of her skin with worry, and there's a whole bunch of people in that waiting room who've stopped everything to be here. Our office is a mess and we need you there to supervise the expansions. And what about all those interviews of wanna-be detectives? Huh? We all know how much you like your sleep, but after all the time you and the missus have taken off lately, you'd think you would've had enough. I'll give you another few hours, but then if you're not awake? Ho, ho… lemme tell you, you don't want _that_ to happen! I'll bring in my trumpet and these fingers don't work like they used to, but it'll still get your attention real quick!"

Shaking her head, she released his hand then leaned down to plant a kiss on his cheek.

"You've gotta be okay, Mr. Steele. There's a lot of people who need you, especially Mrs. Steele."

With those words, Mildred left, only letting the tears fall once she left the room.

* * *

Steeling herself, Laura opened the envelope and poured the contents into her lap.

The watch she'd given Remington for their six-month anniversary; the one he'd wore most often since. It had been the first truly sentimental gift she'd given him, and he'd been thrilled by the inscription, she recalled.

* * *

"' _ **Ever thine. Ever mine. Ever ours. 6-24-86.' Beethoven. The Immortal Beloved letters from the book we read in Vail, isn't it?"**_

" _ **It is. It reminds me of the sailboat—"**_

" _ **In Greece, and our pledges to one another."**_

* * *

Opening her purse, she tucked it inside for safe keeping, before picking up the next item. His ID bracelet, uninscribed yet worn every day since she'd known him. She oft been curious about why it was left blank. At first, she'd suspected it was for no other reason than to inscribe it as intended would be to reveal his real name. Later, after she'd gone to Ireland to help an amnesiac Mr. Steele, it had occurred to her there was likely a far more personal… and more painful… reason. In the years since, she'd never found an appropriate time to ask and in the months since he'd taken on the name Remington Steele quite permanently and legally with her blessing, she'd assumed when the time felt right to him, the bracelet would be at last emblazoned with a name.

She clasped the bracelet around her left wrist, before placing his billfold in her purse. Which only left his wedding ring. Dropping it into her palm, she clenched her fist around it and closed her eyes. In his mind, the ring represented tangible proof of not only their commitment, but, even more so, the ties which had bound the two of them together since the day they'd met. Invisible, inexplicable, unexplainable, but there nevertheless. Lifting it between pad of index finger and thumb, she held the ring up eye level.

* * *

"' _ **Agapi mou, Zoi mou.' I know the expression is 'It's Greek to me,' but I think this really is Greek. What does it mean?"**_

" _ **Roughly translated? 'My love, my life.' I do love you, Laura. Even more than you may ever realize, I think. The words may never come easily to me, but it doesn't mean I don't feel them. Perhaps the ring can serve as a reminder of that when I can't say it myself."**_

* * *

Clenching the ring again, she pressed hand to heart and closed her eyes. _I don't need reminders. I see it every day in the things you do. I just need you_. Unclasping the chain to the locket she wore around her neck, she threaded it through Remington's ring then refastened it. It was fitting somehow: the heart he'd given her, lying next to the symbol of the heart she'd given him. She stood when Mildred and Monroe returned to the waiting room, then with a kiss to each of their cheeks but never a word spoken, she returned to her husband.

* * *

Laura startled when a hand touched her shoulder, as she'd been so focused on simply breathing and trying to quell the fears that left her heart racing, while watching the steady blips on the monitor as though through will alone they'd continue, she'd never heard the door to Remington's room open.

"I'm not leaving," she said, a razor-sharp edge to her voice. Long ago she'd tired of being reminded visiting should be restricted to thirty minutes every couple of hours. As her irritation had increased, her patience had decreased, as had her normally impeccable manners.

"So I've heard," the friendly voice of Dr. Kerr responded from behind her, before he crossed the room to push the rolling stool tucked in the corner over until it rested near to her. "And I'm willing to lay odds, Mrs. Steele, you've not maintained your side of our agreement," he told her as he sat. She frowned, trying to recall the precise details of that agreement, and found she couldn't extract them from her mind. The only thing she could think of at the moment was the man whose hand she clutched tightly in hers. Automatically she took the warm cup he handed her, thought she made no attempt to do anything with it other than hold it.

"I don't know," she finally answered, the delay between comment and response so prolonged it was a moot point before it was uttered.

"As I suspected. Drink," he nodded to the cup in her hand, while waggling a pair of fingers over his shoulder. The door opened and a nurse entered carrying a sphygmomanometer. "I'll make you a deal, Mrs. Steele." She turned dazed eyes on him.

"What?"

"You drink the broth, let us check your vitals again, and, if need be, allow us to administer another dose of promethazine, and I give you my word, not only will no one else give you a problem about staying, I'll even have a cot set up in here for you." She blinked at him, trying to concentrate on his words.

"I can stay?"

"You have my word," he promised.

"Alright," she agreed. He plucked the cup back out of her hand.

"I'll hold that while Nan does her job." Laura complacently allowed her arm to be extended while the blood pressure cuff was put on.

"What time is it?" she asked absently. Kerr glanced at his watch.

"Nine-ten." She frowned.

"Don't you ever go home?" Kerr barked a laugh at the question, drawing her gaze.

"That depends on the day. This evening, I'll be going home right after I'm done checking up on you, but I'll be back on duty at five-thirty. When I am, I'll be following up on _you_ and my spies had better report back that you've managed to get at least a few hours of sleep," he warned, not actually expecting it, not from the woman before him. He recognized stubborn determination when he saw it.

"One-thirty-nine over eighty-eight, pulse seventy," the nurse reported. He nodded, having predicted just that.

"Twelve point five of promethazine," he directed as he handed Laura back the cup of broth. Nan left the room taking the blood pressure monitor with her. "Drink."

"I'm not thirsty," she answered, trying to give him the cup back. He feigned a frown.

"We had a deal, remember?" Brows drawing together again, she thought on that, then lifted the cup to her lips. Kerr leaned forward, and with a couple of fingers to her chin, turned her head to face him. His eyes darted back and forth, examining hers and finding them dull, unfocused. Exhaustion had set in to accompany the shock. If she hadn't gotten some sleep by morning, he'd have to give consideration to a larger dose of medication. "Mrs. Steele, I need you to focus on what I'm about to say to you. Can you do that?" The question annoyed her when it registered. Why didn't anyone understand she could only focus on one thing, on person right now? Anger flashed through her eyes, a good sign in his estimation.

"Will you leave me alone with my husband if I do?" A smile lifted his lips.

"I give you my word," he agreed.

"Then what is it?" she all but snarled.

"You need to eat and get some sleep." The nurse returned while he was speaking, and he nodded at her to administer the injection. Laura, once more, was compliant, paying little heed to the woman. "While I have no doubt you can continue like this by willpower alone, remember, there is someone else dependent upon you for what they need right now as well. Do you understand?" She sucked in a harsh, staggered breath at the reminder.

"I'll try," she promised.

"Is there anyone here with you?" he inquired.

"They're in the waiting room." She frowned. "Or they were the last time I was there." He nodded and stood.

"Alright. Use the cot, Mrs. Steele," he advised. "I'll be back in the morning to see how you're doing." He turned around and found she'd already tuned him out again. With a worried shake of his head, he took the empty cup from her hands and left the room.

* * *

Dr. Kerr stood in the doorway of the waiting room.

"Is anyone here with Laura Steele?" he inquired. Several blank faces looked back at him, but two men and a woman stood and crossed the room to him.

"We are," Murphy answered, indicating Sherry and Monroe with a nod of his head. They'd sent Bernice, Mildred and Jocelyn home to get some sleep a little while ago. "Is something wrong? Is Laura okay? Has something happened to Steele?"

"Mr. Steele's status remains unchanged," he assured the group, reaching into his pocket and taking out a card "I'm Dr. Kerr, Chief of Emergency Medicine. I treated Mrs. Steele a few days ago for a somewhat serious case of the flu and dehydration," he prevaricated while fishing a business card from his pocket. It was close enough to the truth, as that's what she'd reported on arrival, but not so close as to violate her confidentiality. "As you know, she's sustained one heck of a shock today, for which I've been treating her when she'll allow."

"How can we be of service, Doctor?" Monroe inquired.

"It's imperative she eat, drink and get some sleep, all of which are not foremost on her mind right now," he replied. "She's going to need to rely on friends and family to remind her, as unobtrusively as possible. When you visit Mr. Steele, bring something with you for her. Keep it light: Tea, broth, soup. Earlier she told me she kept a few things in her purse Mr. Steele had made her that help with the ongoing stomach upset. I've found if you place it in her hands, and give short direction, she'll consume it by rote."

"As much as we'd like to help, we can't get back there to see Laura. We've tried. Hospital policy states no more than one visitor at a time," Murphy said with a bit of bitterness and a considerable amount of frustration. Kerr smiled his understanding and nodding.

"Being Chief of Emergency Medicine does have it perks, you know. I've made it clear Mrs. Steele is to be allowed to remain with her husband, and that one additional visitor an hour should be allowed back for a ten minute period." He mulled over her reaction to his intrusion not long ago. "She may not tolerate company that frequently or even speak when you're there. Don't push her. Our goal is to reduce her stress not add to it. Feel the situation out. You may only be able to stop by every couple of hours, but when you do, _gently_ encourage her to get some food and fluid in her body. While food and drink are not normally permitted in the ICU, in light of the current situation, I've had that rule lifted for her, as well."

"We can do that," Murphy agreed.

"I've ordered a cot be set up in the room for her. In my opinion, separation from Mr. Steele right now will be detrimental to her health," Kerr continued, handing Murphy his card. "My card. Should there be an emergency with Mrs. Steele, have a nurse in ICU contact me at home and I'll come in. Otherwise, I'll be back at five-thirty, after which I can be paged and I'll come right up."

"Thank you, Dr. Kerr," Sherry offered.

"It's my pleasure. I found the Steele's to be a remarkable couple when I met them the other day. I'm hoping this turns out well for both of them. I'll see you in the morning." With those words, he departed, leaving the threesome looking at each other.

"When does Steele's father get in?" Murphy asked Monroe.

"His plane lands at eleven-thirty. Mildred has arranged for Fred to pick the Marquess and Marchioness up at the airport and he is to remain at their beck and call throughout their stay. Mick's father is quite _insistent_ he be brought directly to the hospital this evening."

"Understandable," Murphy noted. "The other couple?"

"Elena and Marcos Androkus. Traveling privately. By their estimation, they should arrive here at the hospital between three and four this morning." Murphy nodded, then took several steps away while rubbing at his neck before turning to face the other man.

"I know this is a lousy time to bring it up, but there's the Agency and press to consider as well. Mildred and Bernice have each agreed to spend four hours a piece at the office, answering phones, keeping things going as well as they can. Both are pros at handling the press. But there's the contract Steele was working on and the expansion. Laura might not be thinking of it right now, but when she does, unless we have a solution in place…" Murphy's words trailed off as he lifted a hand and dropped it.

"I understand, mes ami. Mick and I were to meet at his office when…" Monroe looked in the general direction of the ICU. "I've worked with Mick often enough on his systems to work by his design. I'll retrieve up his plans tomorrow, place the order and have the crews ready to move forward."

"I used to work construction in the summers," Sherry stepped in. "I'll oversee the renovations. I'm sure Mildred or Bernice wouldn't mind watching over the boys while I speak with the contractor."

"That leaves any skip traces and asset traces being conducted right now," Murphy commented. "I can step in taking lead there." He looked at the other two. "It seems we have it all figured out for right now."

"It does, indeed," Monroe agreed.

All three had to wonder what other accommodations would have to be made in the next months as Steele recovered… if the worst didn't come to pass.


	20. Chapter 20: Crash & Crisis

Chapter 21: Crash & Crisis

Laura sat next to Remington's bedside, holding his hand, the side of her face pressed against the mattress as her eyes stared at the steady peaks and valleys showing on the ECG and the monotonous beep-beep-beep that accompanied the display.

"It's time to wake up, sweetheart," she spoke to him quietly, as she'd been doing for hours now. "I know you're tired, but so are Baby Steele and I and we can't sleep without saying goodnight to you. Baby Steele needs his or her father. _I need_ their father. There's so much to fight about in the months ahead. A nursery theme to start with. I'm sure you're going to demand we design the nursery with some cinematic twist to it. I'm telling you now, there's no way you'll convince me Cary and Humphrey should stand watch over our child as they sleep. I bet you think I'd like a circus theme, but you'd be wrong. I was thinking it should be a reflection of our tastes. Classic, elegant, yet warm, comforting. Lots of creams, off whites, just the slightest splash of color. Your sketches framed and hanging on the wall near the crib. Delicate, handknit throws, comforters trimmed with Irish lace. An Irish proverb or two, hand scripted, to guide our child as they grow."

She released a long, shuddering breath.

 _Breathe. Just Breathe._

"You need to wake up now, Mr. Steele. I owe you an apology and we both know how much you enjoy it when I have to admit I made a mistake. There days I don't know why you put up with it all. I don't understand myself—"

Her words came to abrupt stop, when someone at the door cleared his throat. Turning red, weary eyes towards the door, she slowly pushed to her feet.

"Thomas," she breathed. "You're here." Tears puddled in the bottom of the man's eyes, but didn't fall.

"He's my son. There's nowhere else I'd be." His eyes settled on Remington, remained there as he eased to the side of the bed to take his son's hand in his. "The young man who called me was unable to tell me very much other than his injuries were serious. What happened? Where does the prognosis stand?"

"He was…" she wrapped her arms around herself, trying to give herself comfort, "He was shot, trying to keep me sa… safe. The surgeon repaired his large intestine, the renal artery. They say all we can do now is wait." Her eyes drifted from father, to son, then back again. Her brow furrowed and nose crinkled as she acknowledged there was only one right thing to do, no matter how much her heart fought against it. Rounding the end of the bed, she stopped at the head and brushing Remington's hair back, she pressed a kiss on his forehead. "I'll be back shortly, sweetheart," she whispered next to his ear, then watched, hoped, prayed for recognition of her words that never came. Pulling in a stuttering. breath, she stood. "I'll… I'll leave the two of you to spend some time together," she forced the words past her lips.

"That's not necessary," the Marquess insisted, seeing the toll it was taking on his daughter-in-law.

"You're his father. It's only right," she answered, then walked swiftly out the door.

Thomas sat down heavily in the chair Laura had occupied.

"Ah, son, we've not had near enough time," he murmured patting Remington's hand. "You mustn't leave us now."

* * *

"I know you enjoy your sleep, Remington," Laura told him quietly, having returned to her place at his bedside some three hours before, "But I think even you have to agree sixteen hours is a bit excessive. If you'll just wake up, let me know you're going to be alright, you'll find out your fondest wish is about to come true, and I won't even clobber you for enjoying it too much. You, finally Lord of the Manor and me waiting on you hand-and-foot, at least until you're well. So, don't get _too_ used to it, because when you're well enough you'd better believe my generosity will come to an end." Lifting her head from the bed, she looked for any glimmer of movement. Finding none, she lay her head back down.

 _Breathe. Just Breathe._

"Thomas was here. He came all the way from London to without a moment's thought. He loves you, Remington and would be devastated if you don't fight and come back to us. He finally has you in his life after thirty-five years of looking, waiting, hoping. He needs more time with you… decades more time with you. He hasn't even heard you call him Fa—"

"Laura," Murphy interrupted. "Marcos and Elena are here, in the waiting room…" She began to stand then abruptly sat back down.

"I can't leave him alone, Murph," she told her friend and former partner, dully.

"Go, I'll stay with him. I give you my word. I haven't had a chance to see him yet, anyway." Blinking her eyes, she nodded and stood. Leaning over, as had become habit, she brushed Remington's hair off his forehead, and lay her lips there, letting them linger.

"I'll be right back, sweetheart." With a final squeeze of his hand, she turned and left the room. Murphy sat down and dropping his head, rubbed at the back of his neck.

"Steele, it's Michaels. I'm telling you, pal, if you weren't out cold, I'd be giving you a swift kick in your ass for what you're putting people through right now." He looked over his shoulder towards the door. "Especially Laura. She's a wreck, Steele, barely holding it together. I told you once, I only left after I knew you'd never let anything happen to her. Well, buddy, this is destroying her and only one person can stop it: you. So how 'bout waking up? Huh? After years of trying to get through to her, if you give up on her now…"

* * *

"Laura," Marcos called her name gruffly as she entered the waiting room and swiftly moved to gather her in a bear hug.

"You came," she managed over his shoulder, not even realizing it was the exact statement she'd made to Thomas earlier. She was stunned to find not only Marcos and Elena waiting on her arrival, but Zeth, Christos and Melina as well.

"Where else would we be, eh?" Marcos asked, clasping her shoulders in her hands, and bussing her on both cheeks before handing her off to Elena, who grabbed her in a hug as well. "Xenos may have found his father, but he is still a son and brother in our hearts, as he's always been."

"My Laura," Elena crooned as she rocked the younger woman. "Our Xenos will come through this. We must have faith. He has much to live for." Closing her eyes and praying Elena was right, she nodded her head. "Calista and Helena will have spread the word throughout the family by now, many candles will be lit for him."

In turn, Laura accepted hugs from a terse but standing strong Zeth, a withdrawn and strained Christos, and a weepy, shaking Melina.

"When can we see him?" Melina asked, fingertipping away the tears slipping down her face.

"He's allowed one visitor per hour for ten minutes. I don't… I don't…" she stumbled and her words failed her. How could she be expected to make this decision right now when all her energy needed to be focused on Remington.

"Marcos, you go. Our Laura and I will have a talk. Melina, enough tears. Go, get us tea. Christos, Zeth, a minute if you will." The Androkus clan scattered as ordered by their matriarch as Elena tugged Laura over to a set of chairs. Once seated, she clasped Laura's face between her hands and stared into her eyes. Too weary to do elsewise, Laura simply returned the gaze.

"You neither sleep nor eat. Is this true?" Laura frowned, wondering if Murphy had ratted her out.

"That's not true. I've eaten the peanut butter vanilla oat bars that were in my purse," she protested weakly.

"But this is all?" the older woman's eyes narrowed.

"I drank some broth," she sighed, averting her eyes towards to hallway as Murphy returned to the room. "It wouldn't stay down." Elena nodded her understanding.

"Then when Marcos's visit is done we will go. I will make food for you and when we return you will eat." It wasn't a suggestion but an order. Even in her dazed state, Laura understood this. She nodded complacently. "Have you shared the joyful news?" The question earned another confused furrow of the brow, then a blink of the eyes when she understood.

"No. We don't want…" Her heart clenched, and she strained to draw a breath.

 _Breathe. Just Breathe._

"And in your home, are there things which will reveal this secret of yours?" Laura's eyes widened.

"Books in the dining room, the ultrasound picture on the refrigerator." Elena nodded, then a glance upwards warned Laura to speak no further. "Thank you, Melina," she acknowledged the younger woman, returned with the tea. Handing a cup to Laura, she told her in a voice that brooked no argument, "Drink." Glancing at the clock, Laura took to her feet.

"I'll drink it in the room. I don't want him left alone." And with those words, without so much as a goodbye, she left the waiting area to return to Remington's room.

* * *

"It's enough of this, my son," Marcos insisted, standing at Remington's bedside, the young man's hand clasped in his. "Your father, he worries. Your brothers, sisters, cousins, Elena and I, we worry. Our Laura, she fears she must prepare to mourn. Even as a boy, your will to survive was greater than that of most men. _Fight,_ Xenos." He bowed his head to say a prayer.

Laura stood silently in the doorway sipping the tea as promised, respectfully waiting until Marcos lifted his head and crossed himself, then watched as the older man leaned over to buss his 'son' on both cheeks.

"Elena and I love you, Xenos, as do your brothers and sister. Come back to us. I'll stand for no less." Standing, he turned to leave but not before gathering his 'daughter' in his arms again. "My Xenos, he's always been a good boy. He will listen and do as I say." Biting her lower lip, she nodded her head rapidly. And with a kiss to her cheek, Marcos was gone.

Forcibly drinking the rest of the tea, she tossed the empty cup into the small waste can, then resumed her seat, taking his hand in hers and allowing her lips to linger against his palm.

"I'm back, Mr. Steele, just as I promised."

Long ago, the cot had been installed across the room, but being that far from Remington was intolerable in her mind. As long as she could feel his hand within hers, watch the rise and fall of his chest, see the waves on the monitor steadily going up-and-down, up-and-down, she could feel confident he was still with her. She lay her head back on the mattress, her eyes upon the screen. Marcos's words had stirred a question in her mind, and she searched it for the answer.

 _Breathe. Just breathe,_ she reminded herself for the hundredth time on the day.

The fingertips of her free hand toyed with the hair on Remington's forearm, even as she became more despondent the closer she came to the answer she was seeking. She viciously wiped away a tear that managed to escape past her lashes. Her mood turned ever more bleak as she realized one of the last memories Remington would have of her was, in essence, the revocation of her trust. The trust he'd spent years trying to earn. The trust he cherished. Even more disturbing, she'd accused him in deed if not words, of being capable of walking away from his own child. As fatigue won out and drug her down in the dark abyss of sleep, she could only wonder if he'd have been better off being deported, because at least then he wouldn't be here, hovering somewhere between life and death.

* * *

Laura was startled from her sleep by a piercing buzz filling the room and someone's hands grabbing at her shoulders, trying to remove her from Remington's bedside. Still disoriented, she struggled with whoever it was.

"Take your hands off me!" she demanded, trying to shake the hands free.

"Mrs. Steele, please, we need you to leave," a woman's voice pled. Being called by the name cleared the fog in her brain in a snap and she quickly took in her surroundings. Remington's prone form on the bed. Tubes and wires protruding from everywhere. His deathly pale pallor. The slightly blue tint forming around his mouth. A nurse lowering the bed flat, as someone else came running through the door pushing a cart in front of them. But it was the heart monitor that caught and held her attention, and the flat line there, where previously there had been a steady stream of peaks and valleys. Stupefied, she allowed herself to be led out of the room. Laying her forehead against the bank of windows siding his room, she could only watch as Remington's body arched from the bed, and a team of doctors and nurses worked to revive his failing heart.

The first twenty-four to forty-eight hours would tell the tale, she'd been told. It was hour nineteen. So, what did this mean? It was too reminiscent of the scene at the loft and in a flash, she was taken back there.

"Code blue, Surgical ICU Room 2. Code blue, Surgical ICU Room 2," a woman's monotone announced through the speakers above.

Numbly, Laura stumbled through the double doors, making her way on autopilot towards the waiting room. She had every intention of letting those who waited there know what was happening in that room down the hall. But when she faced Christos, Murphy, and Monroe, all three already standing in wake of the announcement that had blared through the speakers, the words wouldn't come. Instead her throat closed, and her eyes widened, before she bolted down the hall. Seeing the look of abject fear on her face, on instinct all three men followed, although only Murphy was aware of what that look meant as he'd seen it years before and had hoped to never see it again.

"Monroe, have Kerr paged, now," Murphy ordered, as he yanked open the door to the room into which Laura had fled. "Chris, let no one but Kerr in here, understand? No one," he directed before pulling the door shut behind him.

Laura leaned her backside against the cool tiled wall, and wrapping her arms around herself bent at the waist, desperately trying to draw in air. She turned her head when Murphy came through the door, her eyes wild with panic and fear. She held up a hand at him and shook her head, telling him wordlessly to come no closer. He didn't heed the warning and moved further into the room, stooping down across from her.

"It's me, pal. We've been down this road once before together, remember?" he asked her, carefully modulating his voice so that he appeared calm and in control, although he felt anything but.

"I can't… I can't…" she panted, unable to get the words out past the frantic need for air.

"I know, you feel like you can't breathe. Concen—"

"No," she moaned the word around her gasps for breath. "I can't… fix it… if he…" A sob burst past her lips. Mercilessly, she forced it down as she struggled again to pull air into her lungs. Murphy jumped on the slip. Every instinct told him until she released whatever demon it was she was clinging to the panic attack would not abate.

"Fix it? Fix what, Laura?" he cajoled.

"I acc… accused… him," she panted, her brows knitting together, "I… _hurt him_ …" she wailed the last words as she slid down the wall to her knees. Murphy watched as her ribs retracted from the effort to draw a breath.

"You fought. The two of you've been fighting since the begin—"

"No, _no,"_ she almost shouted, before a sob burst through again. "I _hurt_ him… He… hadn't… done… anything." She lifted tear filled, tortured eyes to him. "If he… I can't… _fix_ … _it_." She fell forward to her hands and knees, sobs now mixing with gasps. "The… last thing… he'll…re… _remember_."

The door opened and Kerr burst through the opening, quickly assessing the situation. As soon as he'd heard the code blue announced, he'd run for the second floor, suspecting this might be his patient's breaking point.

"Twenty-five mg of promethazine," he ordered the nurse he'd grabbed to follow him, then crossed the room to his patient, kneeling next to her and laying two fingers against her carotid while keeping an eye on his watch. Christos took it all in from the open doorway, his brow furrowing and a fist clenching. Laura appeared oblivious to it all, focusing on Murphy.

"I haven't… _told_ … him… in months… I didn't know… didn't realize… I hadn't," she wheezed with the effort to breathe. "What if… he… doesn't… kn… _know_?"

"He knows, pal. I promise you, he knows." She shook her head vehemently at him, tears dripping from her eyes in a torrent now that they'd begun.

"If he… I can't… _tell him_ … I can't… _fix it…_ " She reared up, grabbing at her center, as she desperately fought for air. Murphy's eyes moved to the doctor, a plea in them for help.

"Mrs. Steele, they've stabilized Mr. Steele," Kerr told her in a reassuring voice. "We need to focus on you now." He nodded at the nurse who'd returned to administer the injection. Kerr pulled up her sleeve, the needle almost immediately piercing Laura's skin, unnoticed.

"I didn't… want this… to… to… love him… need him…' She leaned back against the wall, as the medication began to take effect, its work made easier in her exhausted state. "I can't lose him, Murph… I can't… do this… without him… I can't imagine… I _don't want to._ " Her sobs came in earnest now, as her struggles to breath eased. Pulling her legs up to her chest, she lay her head on arms rested against knees. "It's my fault."

"It's not your fault, partner," Murphy consoled, moving closer to her.

"He was… _protecting me_. Even… after."

"Kathy, we need to get her back to the room," Kerr addressed the nurse, "If you'll get a wheelchair, then—"

"I'll take her," broke in Christos, finally fully entering the room. Leaning down, he easily scooped his sister-in-law up in his arms as though she was no larger than a toddler, then followed Kerr down the hall and into surgical ICU, where he lay her on the cot in Remington's room.

"It should have been me, not him," she mumbled, as she turned on her side and drew her legs up.

"As though Xenos would have tolerated such," Christos countered. "He'll wake soon and all this worry will be for naught. Sleep. When you wake, all will be better."

"You'll stay with him?"

"I'll guard the gates," he assured. He watched over her until she fell asleep then took his promised position at his brother's side.

(TBC)


	21. Chapter 21: What Can't Be

Chapter 21: What Can't Be

Laura woke with a groan and an unsettling feeling that something was off. She lay staring up at the still unfamiliar ceiling as she tried to put her finger on what was wrong. Several minutes passed before a sudden tightening of her abdomen told her what had awakened her. Contractions, she was having contractions. With considerable difficulty, she heaved herself to a sitting position, swinging her legs over the side of the too soft bed and reached for the watch she'd become in the habit of leaving on the bedside table each night for just this occasion. Slipping it on and latching it, she waited patiently for the next, spending the time refamiliarizing herself with her surroundings.

Five months after Remington's death, she'd fled. There was really no other word for it. Her mother and Frances had hovered endlessly, meaning well but not understanding what she needed most was not consolation but solace, something they could not possibly provide. There was only one person that could and she'd lost him on March nineteenth, five days before the ninth month anniversary of their marriage.

She'd shut the Agency doors the day of his funeral and hadn't opened them since, didn't know if she ever would. Long ago, her love for her work and her love for the man had become irrevocably linked, the job never quite so enjoyable as when they were working side-by-side. Stolen kisses, unconscious touches, blistering arguments, witty repartee had all taken place there. It was within those walls they'd first met and her life had changed in that instant, even though she was so foolish as to not admit it to herself, let alone him, for years. There was no peace to be found in the memories there. Instead, they served as an aching reminder of all she'd lost. So, for now, the bills were paid monthly and Bernice and Mildred both drew a salary until she determined the fate of the business she'd once loved above all else.

Two months ago, she'd sold the loft, let out Remington's apartment on a two-year lease, and left the house in Holmby Hills sitting as it was and disappeared. She'd needed away from it all: the emptiness, the memories, the cloying heartache… the suffocation by her mother and sister. She needed to be where she felt close to Remington, but where, at the same time, no memories of them lived. The idea had come to her one long, lonely, desolate night. Ireland. It was who he'd seen himself as, an Irishman and the land to which his heartstrings were tied. The country in which his own mother had been born, then died. It was where his son should be born, Irish and American from the very start. In that decision, she'd found a peace she'd thought forever lost.

At seven months pregnant there was little time to waste, as it would be difficult, if not impossible, to travel much longer. Within three days time, she'd packed up the essentials: clothing for her, the scattering of clothing she'd bought for the baby, their wedding pictures, pictures of Remington, his sketchbooks, his dress shirts she taken to sleeping in and his bottle of cologne. Her piano would remain safely ensconced inside the home they'd shared, just as his treasured Auburn would remain within the secure confines of the garage there.

She'd arrive in Ireland with no idea of where she was going to live. Ashford Castle was not even a consideration. Her guilt over her actions their first days there would be a living, breathing being and she already carried more guilt upon her slim shoulders than she could bear most days, rightly earned or not. Then, there were the memories of the last days spent there. Sweet, precious, beautiful memories with the power to shatter her.

In the end, she'd rented a small, beachfront cottage just outside of Salthill, close enough to the modern hospital in Galway, but far enough removed to provide the sanctuary she was searching for. Water, they'd always had that in common, seeking it out when they were most troubled. For two months she'd strolled the quiet, often empty sands at sunrise then again at sunset, even on the most bitterly cold of days. She'd fill the hours in between preparing for their child, decorating his nursery - yes, in the cinematic theme she knew her husband had once fancied, even though he'd never said as much. Framed posters from Casablanca and Charade hung over the wall across from their child's crib: Bogart, Grant, Hepburn and Bergman, all there to watch over their child. And on the wall above the crib? The sketch Remington had completed, depicting the day they'd found out she was pregnant. Remington's face the last thing their child saw each evening before he slept, the first thing he saw when he woke. The room itself was a palate of blacks, whites, grays and bright splashes of reds and some blues, the colors that came to mind when she thought of Remington.

She looked at her watch then crinkled her nose as the next pain arrived. Slightly uncomfortable but bearable. When her contractions were six minutes apart, she'd have to leave for the hospital.

Remington had never awakened after he'd stilled while lying on her lap in the loft. She'd hadn't seen those bright blue eyes twinkle with mischief or gaze at her with infinite tenderness again. She'd hadn't heard the rich tenor of his voice or the brogue that would course through his words when he was most content. She hadn't felt his hand on the small of her back guiding again or the caress of his hand against her cheek. She hadn't been able to apologize for her unfair, hurtful allegations about Clarissa.

She hadn't been given the chance to let him know how much she loved him, that somehow, he'd become not only her heart but all the best parts of her life.

Twenty-eight hours after he'd been shot, disseminated intravascular coagulation had set in and had taken him from her before the forty-two hour mark.

She hadn't cried. She'd raged. For two months, it was her fury with him that had sustained her. He'd given up that morning in the loft. She'd seen it in his eyes, in his attempt to say the words one… last… time. Was it because he'd believed for far too long that providence would never allow him to hold on to what he'd dreamed of, now had, but didn't deserve? That it had finally come to call in the dues for all his past misdeeds, no matter how insignificant they were? Maybe.

When her rage had finally petered out, the tears still would not come. What did arrive was a loneliness that gnawed at her very soul and a grief so staggering it rendered her nearly useless. She slept, because his child needed her to. She ate, because his child needed her to. She diligently kept every doctor's appointment, because his child needed her to. If it took every ounce of her will, she vowed, his child would be born safe and well. His child kept her going when all she wished to do was lay down and sleep, so that she might find him in her dreams.

During those months, she'd spent hours at a time in the hammock dreaming of what had been and what should have been; she drove to the beach and walked the sands for sometimes hours at a time; and she kept constant vigil at his grave trying, uselessly, to feel his presence near. She often tried to will herself to cry, to scream, to do anything that might take the place of the black, yawing abyss where her heart once was… all for naught. Her heart was always and irrevocably his and he'd taken it with him when he'd gone.

She'd never love again, and didn't care to. Remington had stolen her heart nearly five years before, and it would forever remain his. Most of all, his child would know no other father but him. She would lavish his child with everything he himself had never known as a child, but for a brief moment with the Androkus family: love, security, and the absolute knowledge he was not only enough for someone else, but he was _everything_ that mattered most in the world.

When the next pain came, she glanced at her watch. Seven minutes. Resolutely, Laura took to her feet and after selecting what she'd wear for the day from the small closet, she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. Thirty minutes later she emerged fully dressed. Double checking her bags to make certain she had all that she and their son would need, she reverently tucked their wedding picture between layers of clothes to keep it safe. Remington might not physically be there for the birth of their child, but in spirit he would. Only one last thing before she departed needed to be done. Picking up the receiver to the phone, she dialed a number, and when answered, asked for whom she needed to speak with.

"It's time," she said simply, then hung up the phone.

* * *

Laura's labor was long and grueling. Nineteen hours and completely natural. She had never been one to enjoy pain, but she was determined that not a second of bringing their child into this world might be blurred by drugs. As she'd always been prone to doing, she escaped into her thoughts, trying to block out the pain.

Several times she'd thought to raise the white flag, admit she couldn't do it. In those moments, she'd draw in a staggered breath, Remington's presence so strong as it surrounded her.

"Ah, love," she heard his whisper, "You're the strongest person I've ever known. You can do anything you set your mind to."

There were times she'd moan his name, needing him there beside her at this moment more so than she had at any time since he'd gone.

"I'm here, m'fhíorghrá. As though I'd be anywhere else, hmmmm?" he'd ask.

Just as she had not a single doubt he'd have made an amazing father, she had no doubt he was there in the room with her. His presence was as real as her own, and she'd swear until her grave she could feel the soft touch of his fingers in her hair, that she could smell that rich, earthy scent that as uniquely his.

The very thought was enough to get her through, and she'd allow her mind to wander until the pain demanded her full attention.

Other than what was needed to fix up the cottage and to prepare the baby's room for his arrival, she'd made only two purchases since arriving in Ireland: a car, for practical reasons, and a top of the line camera. She discovered in the days after Remington's death that the regret which would follow her the rest of her days was a stunning lack of pictures of her husband. Yes, yes, there were the countless pictures printed in the papers after they'd solved a crime, in the society pages. But those pictures didn't speak to who Remington really was at his heart, in the depth of his soul. She had only a single day of pictures, in which the man beneath the public image could truly be seen: pictures from the day of their wedding. In those she could see the twinkle of humor in his eyes, the warmth of his love, the heat of his passion, his ever-present possessiveness as he watched her dance with another… his utter pride that she was his. In those she found the expressive hands, the long elegant fingers conveying a gentleness that logic said he shouldn't have been able to hold onto given his childhood. In those was the crooked smile when he was amused or most touched; the wide, toothy grin when he was most pleased; the quirk in the corner of his lips when he was teasing her; the purse of his lips as he sent her a kiss across the room.

One day in five years. It wasn't enough.

She'd vowed then-and-there that every moment of their child's life would be captured on film. His story in pictures would be there one day for his wife, his children, maybe even his grandchildren. Even now, the camera sat on the nightstand beside her bed, after she'd extracted a promise from the nursing staff that someone would capture on film the first moment she held their son.

Their son. The thought was almost enough to draw the soft snort of her laugh… almost. She hadn't after all, laughed since before Remington's death. She'd never found out if the child she carried as a boy or a girl, her husband's words – 'what's life without a little mystery' – whispered into her ears the day of the ultrasound which would reveal, if asked, boy or girl. Yet, in the very deepest part of her soul, she knew absolutely that it was his son she carried. God owed her that much, in her eyes. A little boy with thick hair the richest of sables, eyes so blue they rivaled the azure of the Caribbean seas… a crooked smile, gentle heart, quick wit and endless talent. His father's son.

And as she bore down, feeling the instant when their child slipped fully from her body, she held her breath and waited.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Steele, you have a son," the doctor announced.

She lay back, pressing palm to forehead, and closed her eyes. And for the first time in one-hundred-ninety-nine days, she smiled… then cried, the drops of moisture allowed to slip freely past her lashes. Thus, was first picture of their son: held in his mother's arms, as tears of joy slipped down her cheeks, a smile of infinite pride and unqualified love lifting her lips, and her amber eyes sparkling with wonder and awe as she gazed at him.

"We did it, sweetheart," she whispered, for only his ears to hear.

"Do you have a name for him?" the nurse inquired. Laura looked up from her child and nodded slowly in response.

She'd been tempted, for a time, to change his name. Had considered any number of combinations of Remington and Sean, Remington and James, but had finally admitted there could only ever be one Remington Steele, in whatever derivation. The thought to honor their son with the name he'd tried so hard to earn, had so deeply cherished, was comforting, to an extent. But, she'd soon realized, the greatest honor would be to name the child as his father had hoped, the name he'd chosen and she'd then added to.

"Holt…" she answered quietly. "Holt Fitzgerald Steele. My husband chose it."

Greedily, she took thirty minutes to keep their son as only theirs to cherish and look upon. Finally, she'd picked up the receiver on the phone next to the bed and dialed the nurses station.

"Can you please let them know we'd like them to join us?" she requested, then hung up the phone when the person on the other side assented.

Less than a minute later, the door swung open as Thomas and Catherine entered the room.

While no one had taken or could have taken the loss of Remington as hard as she, Thomas came in close to second. Losing his son mere weeks after he finally had him in his life, had broken the man. Catherine had kept her abreast from time-to-time. Thomas was wholly unable to be consoled, consumed by the regrets of thirty-five years lost. The news that she carried his son's child had provide his lone comfort.

When she'd made the decision to take up residence in Ireland, she'd let Thomas and Catherine know, in case Thomas wished to be there when his grandson was born. Within a week, the couple had taken up residence in Ashford Castle, less than an hour from where Laura's cottage was located. The first time they'd visited, she'd been stunned by Thomas's appearance, his grief having aged him a decade in less than half a year.

Now, she willingly held out her son to him.

"Thomas, meet Holt Fitzgerald Steele," she introduced. Thomas gathered the sleeping child in his arms, and sat down heavily in the chair next to the bed. He gazed upon the infant with wonder in his eyes, as unapologetic tears leaked from his eyes.

"Fitzgerald…" The name lingered in the air.

"Remington and I wanted to honor his grandfather. He is, after all, the best of all of us: You, me… Remington." Speechless, he could only nod his agreement.

The room hung in silence as all three adults stared at one, wee babe who, by only his presence, had given mother and grandfather a reason to carry on.

* * *

Laura and Holt remained in Ireland for three years, until he'd reached the age where it was time for him to start preschool and home, like the siren to a sailor, had finally begun to call her name. When she'd packed up their little cottage, shipping all the belongings they'd gathered across the years back to LA, she couldn't help but feel a little sad. It had been the idyllic early childhood for their precious, gregarious son, with the beach footsteps from their backdoor, the rolling green hills of Ireland only a short drive away, and the small village in which every person was charmed by the little Lord.

She'd come to think of Ireland as home.

Yet, now, as she stood staring at the home she and Remington had created together in Holmby Hills, she realized it had never stop being just that to her: _their_ home. Two months prior, she'd taken the time to take detailed pictures of Holt's bedroom in the cottage and sent them to Mildred, asking that she and Frances work together to recreate it, in its entirety, in the nursery Remington and she had reserved upstairs so long ago. With so many changes about to take place, she wanted at least one place that was comforting in its familiarity for their little boy. She worried endlessly about how Holt would handle the change.

Those worries came to a stop instantaneously as their son moved energetically from room-to-room, exploring their 'new' house, and suddenly came to a halt in the living room. Curious as to what had caught his fascination, she crossed the room and stooped down next to his side then followed his finger upward, until her eyes landed on the portrait of she and Remington on their wedding day, which still hung above the fireplace.

"Look, Mommy, it's Da!"

"It sure is, my smart boy," she confirmed, smiling at him.

"Will he watch over me here, too?" he asked, cocking his head to the side in wonder. Reaching up, she fondly tousled his hair.

"Absolutely. Your Da will always watch over you and keep you safe." Since the night she'd brought him home, it had been a nightly ritual, pointing to the picture over his crib, and telling him exactly that.

"Because he loves me," Holt nodded solemnly, echoing the words he'd heard throughout his lifetime.

"To heaven and beyond." Pressing a kiss to his chubby cheek, she stood and gazed up at the portrait. Even now, she could feel the gentle caress of the back of Remington's fingers as he stroked them down the bare skin of her back.

As she turned to look around the room they'd furnished together, to his gourmet kitchen beyond, she knew the decision to return home had been the right one. Here, where Remington's belongings resided: his theater room and the movie collection stored there. The hammock that had been rehung out back, at her request, an awaited her to find sanctuary in its embrace. Their bedroom upstairs, the bed they'd shared, his clothing still hanging in closets, stored in drawers. His beloved Auburn in the garage.

"Holt? How would you like to go for a drive in your Da's car?" she asked impulsively.

A pair of bright blue eyes twinkled up at her, and a pair of lips lifted in a crooked, charming smile, that never failed to make her heart go pitty-pat.

Closing her eyes, she nodded her head, finding peace with her decision.

 _We're home, sweetheart,_ she told him silently. And when their little boy tugged at her hand, and dragged her towards the front door, she gladly followed.


	22. Chapter 22: Tragic Love Story

Chapter 22: Tragic Love Story

Laura's entire body shuddered as her eyes blinked open. Bolting to a sitting position, she looked around the room, terrified, for a moment, it hadn't been dream. She released a stuttering breath as she saw Christos sitting next to Remington's bedside, keeping watch over him as he'd promised. In a flash, she was at her husband's side, brushing the hair back off his forehead, before leaning down and pressing her lips against his cheek.

"I seem to have fallen asleep on you, sweetheart. I'm sorry," she murmured quietly next to his ear. She quickly looked across the room at the clock. They were approaching the twenty-four hour mark of when he'd been shot, and he'd still not awakened. "How long was I asleep?" she asked Christos.

"Not quite four hours," he answered, standing and relinquishing the chair to her. "Xen has slept soundly, as well. Now, I am under strict orders and must go let Mama know you've awakened."

"Thank you for staying with him." Sitting down, she grasped Remington's hand in hers, thinking it wasn't quite as cold as it had been.

"He's my brother," Christos answered simply, then turned and left the room, walking in long, swift strides to the waiting room. Murphy and Mildred stood when he entered.

"How's Mrs. Steele?" Mildred was the first to ask.

"Awake and with Xen," Christos replied, then seeing the answer hadn't quite hit the mark, tried again. "Better. She's seems better." Mildred sighed in relief.

Over the morning hours, the waiting room had gradually filled with Remington's friends and family again. Marcos, Elena, Zeth and Melina had all returned; Monroe had departed to begin working on the Fournier stores, and Jocelyn had arrived to sit vigil in his stead; Sherry had come and gone, bringing Murphy coffee, breakfast and a change of clothes; and, Thomas and Catherine had returned shortly after Laura's breakdown, spending the morning getting to know the family that had taken in his son as a child and thought of him as their own.

By late in the afternoon the day prior, the press had gotten wind of the shooting that had occurred at the former home of Laura Steele nee Holt, but without any details circulating about who had been shot or the parties involved, it had earned little more than a blurb on the evening news. Overnight, however, as reports had been turned in by various crime scene techs, officers and detectives, more specifics had been learned, and now, all attention in the waiting room turned to the television as the talk show which had been playing there was interrupted for a special news broadcast. The camera focused in on a stunning redhead, standing before the doors to the emergency room downstairs.

"Overnight, more details have emerged surrounding the shooting which took place yesterday morning at the former home of Laura Steele, wife and partner of detective Remington Steele. As the investigation continues, little is known of the specifics. What we do know is three people are dead, and prominent detective and former most eligible bachelor Remington Steele lies wounded, here," Windsor held her hands towards the hospital doors, "in the Surgical ICU. Among the dead are Lydia Van Owen, who was once engaged to billionaire and philanthropist Walter Patton, before she was convicted of the murder of Raymond Merleau and conspiracy to commit murder for her part in the attempt on Steele's life. Also dead are defense attorney Andrew Morton and an unknown woman. Hospital sources have confirmed Steele survived surgery yesterday and his condition, as of right now, is critical. We'll continue to keep you abreast of any new developments as they come in. Back to you, Bob…"

"I never did like that woman," Mildred snorted. "We need to find out from Mrs. Steele how she wants to handle this."

"Not until our Laura has had a chance to nourish herself," Elena answered. "Thomas, you will come stay with your son in twenty minutes." With that, she picked up the two thermoses and bag at her feet and left the room while several people in the room eyed the Marquess, wondering how he would take to being given orders by the short, rotund Androkus family matriarch.

And marching into this fray, dragging her hesitant daughter behind her, arrived Abigail Holt.

"Where's my daughter?!" she demanded to know. "Where's Laura?"

"Now, Mother," Frances squeaked, then squaring her shoulders, spoke more firmly, "I told you she'll be with Remington. She asked that we stay—"

"A child needs their parent at a time like this," Abigail interrupted insistently. "Now, I don't wish to make a spectacle of myself, but if someone doesn't tell me where to find Laura…" Thomas stood and offered his hand to the determined woman.

"Mrs. Holt, Thomas Fitzgerald, Remington's father," he introduced himself. At first, Abigail seemed set to dismiss the man, then her mind took note of his name, and for the first time, in a long time, Frances watched as her mother was rendered dumbstruck.

"Fa-… Then you're-… Your Lordship," Abigail finally managed, as she took the man's hand and curtsied.

"That's unnecessary," he told her, urging her to stand erect. "By virtue of our children's marriage, we're family. Thomas, please."

"Abigail," she answered in turn, before nodding to Frances. "Laura's sister, Frances Piper."

"Remington has spoken of your children. He's quite taken with them."

"Well, they all just love their Uncle Remington. We're all so upset about what's happened! Donald took the day off work and the kids stayed home from school," Frances fretted.

"He made it through the crisis this morning, so we continue to hope for the best," he answered, trying to put aside his own fears to keep Laura's family calm. "It's my understanding, Laura will be out when I go visit my son in just fifteen or so minutes. If you'd care to join me, I'd like to introduce you to my wife and the Androkus family."

With a nod of their heads, the two women assented and, at least for now, order ruled in the waiting room.

* * *

Elena had stood outside Remington's room watching Laura for several minutes before she'd intruded on the younger woman's conversation with her husband. Once she entered the room, she sat bag and thermoses on the rolling over-the-bed table. Removing a bowl and spoon from the bag, she filled the bowl with contents from the first thermos and handed it to Laura.

"Fáo. Eat," Elena ordered. "The lemon soup with chicken and orzo our Xenos made for you."

Surprisingly, Laura found she was not only hungry but that the soup appealed to her, perhaps for no other reason than it was made by Remington's hand. In truth, she felt better than she had since this nightmare had begun. After releasing all the emotions, feelings, that she'd tried to keep bottled up during those first hours, she no longer felt like she was drowning and felt as though she had some form of control, at least over herself. As she lifted spoonful after spoonful of soup to her mouth, she watched as Elena fussed over Remington, tucking his covers around him, smoothing down wild pieces of hair, all the while clucking at him and intermittently dispersing numerous kisses upon his brow and cheek. Only when she was finished with him, did she turn her attention back to Laura, taking the empty bowl from her and handing her a cup of ginger tea, before going into the private bath to clean dish and silver, chattering at her throughout.

"You must take care of yourself, Laura," Elena admonished. "You need your strength, not only for the child you carry, but for our Xenos. He needs to find you whole, well. It will go far for his peace of mind, then he may concentrate on healing." Setting the bowl and spoon on the rolling table, she patted Laura on the shoulder. "I will send in Thomas now. You are needed in the waiting room. There are decisions to be made."

* * *

Night had fallen by the time Laura was able to sit at Remington's bedside free of interruption. Numerous decisions had needed to be made on the day. First, of course, there was the issue of the media having gotten wind of all the subjects involved in the incident at her loft. The press had immediately swarmed the Agency looking for a statement. She'd been tempted to close down the Agency the remainder of the week, but logic said it would only send more reporters in the direction of the hospital. Instead, she'd scribbled out a quick statement and sent it with Mildred back to the offices after, of course, Mildred had spent some time with the Boss.

 _On Tuesday, March 17, 1987, Remington Steele was injured during the course of an investigation. Mr. Steele is currently recuperating after surgery and resting peacefully. Given the ongoing investigation by the LAPD, we are not at liberty to discuss the specifics of the case or the incident which occurred at Mrs. Steele's former residence. The Steele's are confident the LAPD will release any information they feel will not jeopardize their investigation and ask that all questions be directed to them at this time. Laura Steele, the couple's families and the staff of the Remington Steele Agency are grateful for your thoughts and prayers during this time. We ask that you please respect our privacy while Mr. Steele recovers."_

To Laura's immense relief, Murphy had volunteered to go downstairs and issue the same release to the press waiting outside of the Emergency Room doors. She didn't honestly expect the statement to deter the most hardnosed, veteran reporters, but it was all she had to offer. What she hadn't anticipated was the avalanche the statement would cause. Apparently, the specific mention of the 'couple's families' had alerted some of the more crafty members of the press that it most likely meant the Marquess Westmoreland was on the hospital grounds, confirmed through flight manifests from the night prior. A member of British royalty in the city of LA almost guaranteed an increase of newspaper sales or viewership for whichever establishment's reporter managed to garner an interview. Thus, while the mob at the Agency had disbursed, the one at the hospital had doubled in size. Thankfully, Jarvis had ordered a pair of officers to stand guard at the hospital as well as at the Rossmore so the family could concentrate on Remington with some form of peace.

Then came the deluge of flowers and balloons from well-meaning, well-wishers, mostly in the form of former clients. Laura could hear in her mind, Remington's sneering voice: _Who sends_ _ **balloons**_ _to a grown man, especially one as refined as I?_ The thought had provided a smile and a much needed short laugh as it was reminiscent of a similar reaction to the gifts sent by her secret admirer.

* * *

 _ **"Laura, do you honestly think that I'm the sort of man who would give a woman a**_ _ **teddy bear**_ _ **?"**_

* * *

What she would give to hear that snooty affect right now. Instead, she directed the hospital staff to keep any cards that accompanied the flowers and balloons, then donate the balloons to patients in the pediatric ward, the flowers to the elderly or alone.

And, of course, there was the surprise arrival of her mother to contend with. Just when Laura felt confident she'd restored some semblance of balance to her battered psyche, had regained some form of control, there Abigail was. Insisting that she cry on her mother's shoulder. Demanding she let her feelings out. Gratefully, she'd left Abigail in Marcos and Thomas's capable hands and with a quick hug for Frances and a few quiet words, she'd returned to Remington's side.

By late afternoon, the nausea that had seemed to disappear made its unwelcome reappearance. Elena, however, had been prepared for such a turn, and in the bag she'd brought back with her to the hospital were ginger lozenges and sugar coated ginger drops. By the time Laura settled herself next to Remington's bed for the evening, she felt well enough to open the container Elena had pressed into her hands shortly before. The lemon chicken and penne was delicious and her stomach seemed to approve of its presence.

"Three and a half years ago, Mr. Steele," she began after the remnants of dinner had been cleaned up and put away, "You arrived at the loft to find me lying on the stairs and Carl firing a gun at you. Do you remember what it felt like, believing I'd been killed? We hadn't even known one another for a year-and-a-half yet. Friends, personally involved, yes. I couldn't have been unconscious for more than a minute, maybe two. When I woke, you were crying…"

* * *

" _ **There were so many things I wanted to tell you. So many things I should have told you. I'm sorry. Oh, come here. Come, come here. Oh, baby…"**_

 _ **"I hate to interrupt while I'm ahead."**_

 _ **"Laura? Laura? Oh, babe!"**_

* * *

"It's three-and-a-half years later now. We're not just friends, but each other's closest friend. We're not just personally involved, but married, sharing a life… We've created a child together. If those two minutes were devastating for you, imagine what it's like for me right now. Take those two minutes, multiply them by thirty and then another thirty-four." She pressed her cheek against his palm. "It's agony…" she whispered.

"When I woke, you were regretting the things you hadn't told me. You had years to tell me those stories, those thoughts of yours." She paused, transferring his hand to her other so she could stroke his cheek as she pushed back her emotions, regained control. "There are things I need to tell you, Remington. Things I regret having said… haven't said often enough, maybe. If you don't come back to me, I don't know if I can find a way to live with those regrets. Don't make me try."

"When my… father…left," she shook her head, "For weeks, months, I waited for him to come home. I thought if I was good enough, he'd change his mind; then if I was bad enough, he'd have no choice but to come home. But, of course, he never did. I honestly believed that this was it: the worst thing that would ever happen in my life. He was… everything to me. The sun rose and set on him. All the best memories of my childhood surrounded him. Tucked up in his lap watching Atomic Man. Our trips to the circus. Throwing a baseball after he came home from work, on the weekends. Him at my games, proudly calling me his 'champ' after a particularly tough game. Parlays at Christmas. Learning to drive. He taught me how, you know, not Mother."

"Then came Wilson and I thought: this is it, the worst thing that will ever happen to me. I loved him. I gave him my whole heart. I shared a home and a bed with the man. I'd even foolishly begun to clip pictures of wedding gowns, cakes, flower arrangements, believing any day he'd get down on one knee and ask me to marry him. It was Wilson, after all: good old staid, WASP, Wilson. He wouldn't be able to live in sin with a woman for the rest of his days." She closed her eyes and crinkled her face, then drew in a deep breath and shook off the deep pang of hurt. "I let his needs, his demands, change me. Unlike my father, I tried to be everything he needed in order to stay. But like my father, it wasn't enough and he left, never looking back."

"In both cases, I was wrong. _This_ is it, Remington. The worst thing that could ever possibly happen to me. I've told you before. You're my best friend, partner, lover, husband. We share a home, a business… _our lives_ from the start of each day until the end. You're the father of our child; will be the grandfather of our grandchildren one day. There's not a single part of my life you're not in, not just today, but until the day I die. And I'd have it no other way, because there's not a single person in my life, or ever has been, who can challenge me… infuriate me… and make me as happy as you do."

"I'm not your Ilsa, Remington. We _will_ _not_ be a tragic love story. You can't condemn me to a lifetime of knowing what could have been, if only you'd not left."

"Remington Steele's word is his bond. How many times have you said that to me? You promised me, time and again, that you aren't going anywhere. You've taken great delight in reminding me… repeatedly… how many years it will take us to make up for the four years I held you off. In sharing your dreams with me in Greece, you promised we'd have two children together, a daughter and a son. We were both there for the ultrasounds, and I'm not carrying twins. You owe me a second child, Mr. Steele. You told me you'll be with me when our child is born, that you'll take on some of those late night feedings… That I won't be left to raise our child on my own. Your word is your bond, Remington, and I expect you to keep it."

She fell silent for a long while, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the blips on the monitor. Then, animating again, she held his hand between both of hers and brushed her lips across his knuckles.

"Do you remember what you said to me, almost four years ago, after I'd fallen from that beam at the Federal Reserve?"

* * *

" _ **I almost lost you out there tonight. Suddenly, I realized I'm not prepared for that at all."**_

* * *

"I'm not prepared to lose you, Remington, not at all. Think of everything that's happened in those four years. Cases solved in Acapulco, England, Ireland, Malta and Cannes. The time we spent in Barcelona, Amsterdam, New York City. Skiing in Vail. A honeymoon in a castle, a wedding in Greece, New Year's in Paris. The Auburn, finding it and finally…"

Until the wee hours of the morning, Laura spoke to him, reminiscing about days past, demanding he keep his word, until, eventually, she fell asleep.


	23. Chapter 23: What Could've Been

Chapter 23: What Could've Been

"It's five after 5. Have you heard from Mr. Steele yet?" Murphy inquired, facetiously. Laura grinned at him as she removed her jacket.

"We all know the problem. Let's talk solution," she replied, as she and Murphy retired to 'Mr. Steele's' office.

"Simple. Say goodbye to Mr. Hunter," Murphy advised, as Bernice entered the room with coffee for the three of them.

"Isn't that a little precipitous?" Laura countered.

"We made a rule. If a client insists on dealing _directly_ with Remington Steele, we pass."

"Gordon Hunter is creating a media event. Television, newspapers, _People Magazine_ , for god's sake. Whoever provides security for the gems gets kissed by the same spotlight. The publicity is worth its weight in clients."

"And you want Remington Steele to personally oversee security," Bernice summarized with a frown.

"That's right."

"Can I ask a dumb question? How is Remington Steele going to do that if he doesn't exist?"

"We don't have to produce a real, live, Remington Steele. Hunter just wants to know he's there," Laura replied, standing and crossing the room. "The trick is to keep our non-existent Mr. Steele involved, yet inaccessible. Wherever Hunter is, he'll be somewhere else." She closed the door adjoining her office to Murphy's. "By the time Hunter realizes that he hadn't met or even seen, Remington Steele, we'll have done our job." As she shut the door to her own office, Murphy shook his head in her direction.

"I think we're courting disaster," he predicted.

"Touch on the overheard," she directed Bernice, as she took a seat behind 'Mr. Steele's' desk.

"It's killing us. These offices, the rental on the furniture, not to mention the limousine-"

"The reason I invented Remington Steele to begin with," Laura reminded Murphy as she settled her eyes on him, "Was to attract clients like Hunter. I'm telling you, all we have to do is manufacture his presence for a few hours - and we can permanently dispense with the red ink -"

"And how do you propose we do that?" he challenged.

"Easily enough," she answered, swinging her gaze to Bernice. "Make a reservation for Mr. Steele… the Presidential Suite. Have Fred go shopping. We'll need suits, dress shirts, ties, sock, belts… at least a dozen of each, all fine quality." She tapped a pencil against. "Forty-two long, I think. Shoes to match the suits, several pairs, size twelve, fine leather, nothing inexpensive. Toiletries, cologne… Lagerfeld. He'll need to purchase luggage: suitcase, a couple of garment bags, overnight bag. Have him drop it at the hotel." She returned her attention to Murphy. "You'll pick it up downstairs and unpack it all in 'his' room." She swung her attention back to Bernice. "Call the hotel several times throughout the evening and request that Remington Steele be paged for an important phone call. Murphy or I, whoever's not with Hunter, will field it. Murph, at ten o'clock you'll call room service as Steele and order dinner. I'll be there to sign for it, then later to leave the cart in the hall to be picked up." She looked at the two of them and grinned. "There, overseeing, advising… just not seen. We _can do this._ Then, when the gems safely… and successfully, I might add… leave LA, the Agency will receive the credit and cases equally as lucrative will come calling." Dropping the pencil on the blotter, she stood and picked up her jacket. "Let's get to it," she directed, walking with purpose towards the office door, before looking over her shoulder. "Coming, Murph?"

With a resigned look at Bernice, he shrugged and followed behind.

* * *

Murphy's concerns, it turned out, were well-founded. The introduction of the Hunter Jetstar 2000 and the surrounding event had gone off without a hitch, Hunter even commending the Agency on its outstanding security during his speech. Then, it had all fallen apart. Ben Pearson, special agent for the South African government had been found murdered in his room. That Pearson was in LA because of the Royal Lavulite was an association missed neither by LAPD homicide or the press. Then? Disaster. Murphy had been knocked unconscious, the perpetrator absconding with the gems.

In the end, Hunter had placed blame for the theft of the gems squarely on the shoulders of the Agency and its illusive head, Remington Steele. Even after Murphy and Laura proved it was Hunter, himself, who had stolen the gems, the black eye remained, although slightly faded. It had taken Laura and Murphy another three years of hard work for the Agency to be viewed as competent and for it to become successful. They'd never taken on another case similar to Hunters, having learned the hard way that it was one thing to be lauded but the press but quite another to be stigmatized by it and pursuit of the first risked the second.

If the Hunter case had proven anything it was that maintaining the existence of the enigmatic Mr. Steele was more problematic than it was worth. Slowly, but surely, Mr. Steele faded out of the business, and by the fifth year of the Agency's existence, it had officially changed its name to Holt-Michael's Investigations. The Agency handled the traditional cases: proof of adultery, location of missing people, uncovering assets hidden in the course of nasty divorces, smaller security gigs. It was by no means the life Laura had envisioned when she'd decided to become a private detective. There were no juicy murders to unravel, no international criminals to pursue, no bullets to dodge, no art thefts to stop in their tracks. Instead, their cases were normal, mundane, sedate… boring. But it required her to think and paid the bills and that's all that mattered in the end. Right?

While her goal of creating the most successful private investigative agency in LA may not have been recognized, her personal vow to never again find herself in 'too deep' had been. For years she'd played the field, dating here and there, occasionally scratching that itch. She had a fairly active personal life, though not what one could ever consider careless, as she'd taken only a handful of lovers across time. If, after a few dates it appeared the man she was seeing was hoping to find the fairytale – marriage, two point three children, the dog and house in suburbia – she quickly, mercilessly ended it, long before they'd crossed that line. Several had protested, but not a single one had pursued, had attempted to change her mind. She'd tried a one night stand… once… and found she didn't like herself very much in the aftermath. She once even dated the typical Neanderthal, although it went against everything she saw herself as being. But, logic had told her, if the man believed a woman's place was in the bed and made it clear he would 'play the field' until the end of time, then there could be no complications. Right? And in the meantime, she could have that itch scratched regularly, then with a wink and a kiss, walk out and go back to her place, alone, as she wanted it. While it had sounded practical, at least in theory, she found it left a bad taste in her mouth, not being respected by the man she was with, being used only for the release her body provided even if she was using him for the same. So, she'd ended that as well.

Now, at forty-eight years old, as slim and fit as ever, two years before she'd settled down into a long term relationship with absolutely no complications. If she had to attach a label to it, she'd term it 'friends with benefits.' They enjoyed one another's company, in and out of bed, they were monogamous, but there were no thoughts of love, marriage or moving in together. It was simple, practical. He respected her, she him; he was decent, if predictable, between the sheets and she got off as often as she didn't, and when she didn't, she had what she needed at home to address that. They might see each other three times one week, then not at all for three weeks. Both made no secret of it: their professional lives took priority. It worked.

Around year four of their partnership, Murphy had finally let go of his hopes that he and Laura would 'get together.' He hadn't dated long before he fell hard for a stock analyst, married, had those two point three kids… well, three... bought that house in suburbia, had a pair of dogs and was coaching football in the fall and soccer in the spring.

There had been a period, brief though it was, that Laura had harbored a longing for a child of her own. To know what it felt like to be pregnant. To feel her child move for the first time, kick for the first time. To watch them grow into their own person. It was the early nineties and women were doing it every day. It no longer carried the same stigma, for mother or child. A random encounter, even a sperm bank, and she could experience motherhood. What she couldn't get past was a child being raised without a father. She remembered all too well, those last couple of years after her father left, and she'd never want her own child to wonder about their father and why he didn't care enough to be there. Thus, the thought had been set aside.

Each Christmas she traveled to Connecticut to spend it with her family. Donald and Francis, married now for thirty-one years, were still living the suburban dream. Danny and Mindy were married, with families of their own, and little Laurie Beth had graduated college and was working steadily towards a Masters in Literature. Abigail, shockingly so, had remarried fifteen years before. Melvin was a decent man, a good provider, well-respected in their church and community. Abigail had taken the risk to love again, while Laura never had.

All-in-all, it wasn't a bad life. She had the Agency, her friends… and her 'friend.' What she couldn't figure out was the ever-present, nagging feeling that she had been destined to have a spectacular life, even more than she could have ever imagined for herself. Why did it feel like something, someone, was… missing?


	24. Chapter 24: Awakening

Chapter 24: Awakening

Laura frowned in her sleep, then slowly settled, a light smile playing on her lips. Gradually, as sleep released her, she stirred, blinked open her eyes and concentrated on acclimating herself to her surroundings. Then she felt it again, what had caught her attention in the dream and drawn her from it. She stilled, afraid that if she moved, this dream, too, would end. Fingers toying with her hair. So familiar. So… comforting. For the first time in two days, her heart was soothed instead of left aching. She dared to shift her head ever so slightly. Remington's chest still rose steadily, up and down; the monitor's waves continued to crest and fall; and the fingers continued their short strokes. Knowing she would regret it when she woke from the dream, she lifted her head …

And found a pair of bloodshot, confused, blue eyes staring at her.

She stood so abruptly that his hand flopped to the bed and her chair clacked against the wall. Cupping his cheek, she peered down at him.

"Remington?"

His eyes slowly lifted to meet hers. Only then did her lips lift in a smile, as her free hand reached for the call button, depressing it.

"Laura?" Her name a question, rasped in a gravelly voice, a throat gone dry from days of not being quenched. She nodded, as she threaded the fingers of both her hands through his hair.

"Welcome back, Mr. Steele," she whispered, as she leaned in to press her lips against his cheek and allowed them to linger.

* * *

Laura made a new discovery across the next forty-eight hours: Unlike the way someone recovering from a major trauma was depicted in films and on the television, a person did not simply wake, sit up and begin carrying on a conversation as though they'd barely sustained a scratch. It was actually a long, drawn out process given the trauma's toll on the body and pain management medications coursing through the bloodstream.

Remington had first regained consciousness on Thursday, March 19th at 5:42 am. She didn't think she'd ever forget the date or time, as it was only when those blue eyes met hers that she could breathe again without feeling like her heart was being slowly but surely crushed beneath the weight of her grief. He hadn't even managed to stay awake until the doctor arrived. But those eyes, her name from his lips, was all she'd needed to believe he'd survive and that dream of them sitting in 'bloody rocking chairs' together when they were eighty had been restored.

This time, when Mildred had arrived to visit with him before heading to the office for her shift, there was an exchange of relieved, elated hugs. Leaving Remington in Mildred's capable and loving hands, she'd rushed to the waiting room, everyone's attention drawn by the wide smile which had graced her lips from the moment she'd seen those stunningly blue eyes.

"He woke up. He woke up and said my name," she'd announced without delay. Elena had crossed herself before throwing herself into Marcos's arms and crying in her joy. Melina, Zeth and Christos embraced once another, as Melina, like her mother shed buckets of tears. Murphy sat down heavily in the chair behind him, rubbing his hands at his face. And Thomas? He seemed frozen until Laura took several steps towards him, then releasing Catherine's hand he'd stood and pulled Laura to him, hugging her as he broke down and sobbed, his relief that his son had made it through so overwhelming. Only when Catherine had eased herself between them, to offer comfort to her husband, did Laura scurry back to Remington's room again, determined she'd be there when he woke the next time… and the next.

He woke sporadically throughout the day. Never for long, and hadn't spoken to her again. He seemed dazed, seeking the assurance she was there by his side before he slipped away again. Nothing more. Dr. Bennett had assured her this was normal, given the heavy doses of medications. Further, he reminded her, there was a vast difference between sleeping and being unconscious while a body works on recovery… work being the operative word. Still, Dr. Bennett's assessment of Remington's condition had moved from guarded to 'optimistic.' His latest bloodwork was good, his blood pressure, pulse and heart rate had remained strong and steady throughout the day, and his kidney was giving no indication of failure. If Remington made it through the night without issue, then in the morning they would begin backing off his pain meds and observe how he fared. If by mid-afternoon he continued to hold his own, even better… continued to improve, then he could be moved off Surgical ICU and into a room by late afternoon or early evening. Thrilled beyond words, she'd said to hell with the expense and asked Bennett to make that room a suite.

Privacy. Time completely alone with him. She craved it. No glass walls where their every movement was watched, monitored even. A more liberal policy on visitors but with greatly reduced visiting hours. She loved everyone who had held vigil for him in that waiting room, but she needed uninterrupted time alone with her husband. Selfish? Maybe. But if it was, no guilt followed.

For the first time in two and a half days, she allowed Elena to pry her away from the hospital. Thomas stayed with his son while she went home, showered, changed, packed what she thought might be needed over the course of the next several days then ate a hot meal under Elena's watchful eyes. By the time Zeth drove her back to the hospital, she had a bag heaping with several treats Elena swore would continue to stave off the morning sickness along with a dozen bags of ginger tea, so she had some readily at hand.

Thursday night she slept as she had the past two: in the chair next to his bed, her head lying against the mattress, his hand in hers. He stirred several times throughout the night, opening his eyes twice, the other times a grunt, accompanied by a twitch that made her wonder if dreams were haunting him or if he was feeling pain from the wound. Each time she stood, pressing her lips against his forehead then speaking quietly to him while cupping his face in her hand and stroking his cheek with her thumb. Only when he returned to untroubled sleep, would she allow herself to resume her seat and fall into a light doze.

On Friday morning, Remington's room was the first stop on Bennett's rounds. By six-thirty, the order had been given to discontinue IV pain meds and to hook him up to a PCA which would supply a very low level of morphine hourly, but would also allow him to self-administer low doses as needed. He stirred, but never truly awakened throughout the morning hours as Thomas, Marcos, Elena, Monroe and Mildred visited. It was a few minutes before noon when his eyes blinked open, and looked around without the haze that had been previously in them.

"Good morning," Laura greeted, leaning over to buss his cheek. "Don't try to talk yet. Dr. Bennet said to give you ice chips to help moisten your mouth and soothe your throat first." His brows furrowed, but he did as asked, and even willingly took an ice chip into his mouth each time offered. His eyes roamed first his body, then the contraptions to which he was hooked up, before he gave her a questioning look. "Do you want to know what happened?" she asked, to which she received a nod in answer. She swallowed hard before answering, hoping she could get the words out without making a fool of herself. "The bullet pierced your large intestine and nicked your renal artery. Dr. Bennett was able to repair both." She found she didn't have it in her to discuss the rest.

"The babe?" he croaked the question, each word feeling like fire. She considered reminding him again that he wasn't to speak, but then let it go. Remington was as headstrong as she, if not more so, when he wished to be.

"Baby Steele's fine," she assured him, a smile lighting her face. "You kept us safe." Closing his eyes, he nodded his head rapidly this time, battling against the tears that threatened. Their heads swung towards the doorway when it opened and Bennett strode through.

"Mr. Steele, I'm glad you've finally decided to join us," Bennett boomed.

"Finally?" he rasped, his eyes darting to Laura.

"It's Friday," she provided. A brow raised, and his eyes darted to Bennett.

"Nothing unexpected," Bennett assured. "Your body sustained a significant injury. Couple that with the blood loss…" he shrugged. "What's important is you're awake now. So, let's give you the once over, and see where we stand."

Bennett asked Remington a series of questions as he examined him. There was some memory loss, for which Laura was grateful. He recalled clearly the confrontation with Anna in the loft but his memory from the point he'd dove in front of Laura at the loft until now was completely blank. Questions complete, Bennett explained his injuries, measures taken to repair them, as well as expectations for healing. When Bennett peeled back the surgical dressing to examine the incision, the couple was unprepared. Remington grimaced at seeing most of his abdomen had been shaved, and there were now dozens of staples arranged in a semi-circle from just beneath his ribs to right above his hips, extending from his side to only a couple inches from his navel.

For days Laura had made it a point to avert her eyes when the nurses were checking the wound, but she'd been so wrapped up in the information Bennett had been providing her husband that she'd forgotten now. Her stomach rolled and her skin blanched at the sight. She landed heavily enough in the chair behind her, that both Bennett and Remington reacted.

"Laura!" Remington lunged for her, then groaned loudly and flopped back onto the bed at the pain from the sudden movement.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she assured him, a bit breathily. Bennett's eyes traveled across her face as he resecured the surgical dressing.

"I'd feel better if we had Kerr come up and check in on you again." Scrunching her face, she slanted her eyes towards Remington to see how much attention he'd paid. Based on the scowl…

"Lau-ra," he growled. She scrunched her nose again. The man could barely get a word past his lips, yet it would figure he could still rumble her name in that manner.

"It's nothing. Need I remind you, Mr. Steele, I'm pregnant and have had morning sickness?" she prevaricated. To Bennett's credit he kept his face remarkably blank, although he made it a point to make eye contact with her.

"All the same, I'll have him paged," Bennett informed her. If ever there was a reason to panic, this was it. If Kerr disclosed too much…

"I'll go down and see him myself while Remington's father visits him," she conceded, feigning an exasperated sigh. Remington's eyes darted to her again.

"Thomas?" Standing, she resumed his supply of ice chips.

"He's been here since Tuesday night," she confirmed. "Elena, Marcos, your brothers and sister a few hours later." This earned another crook of his brow.

"I'm happy to say, Mr. Steele, you're progressing well," Bennett interceded, to announce. "I think we should be able to have you moved out of ICU before dinner. I'll be by to check on you during my evening rounds. Don't be a hero. Use the pain pump as needed. Pain only hampers the healing process." With those words, he was off.

"I'll just go get your father," Laura told Remington, feeding him another ice chip then leaning down and pressing lips to cheek. "I'll be back as soon as I see Dr. Kerr." He grabbed her forearm before she could get away. She turned back to him. "Remington, I'm fine, Baby Steele's fine. You have nothing to be worried about." With a nod, he released her arm and she departed the room, walking directly to the waiting room. Thomas and Catherine, Marcos, Zeth, Melina, Murphy and Bernice were all there, awaiting news. Thomas rose as she approached him.

"Thomas, Remington's awake. I thought you might like to spend time with him while I go downstairs and see ?" Thomas took her hand and clasped it between both of his.

"I'd like that, very much," he told her, gratefully. With a squeeze of her hand, he released it and left to join his son. She turned to the three members of the Androkus clan.

"Marcos, Xenos will be moved out of ICU in the next few hours. I'm sure he'd love to see of all of you." Marcos stood and gathered her in a tight hug.

"We'll go back to the house for lunch, and bring Elena and Christos when we return. Be warned, my Laura. Elena is cooking now, even as we speak." She smiled widely at him.

"It sounds wonderful. Do you think she might come up with a broth, bullion, something light for Xenos? I doubt they'll allow him to have much beyond that right now, and if I know him… and I do… he'll snub his nose at anything from the cafeteria."

"Elena would be delighted. There's little she enjoys more than fussing over her children." After Marcos bussed her on both cheeks, Laura exchanged hugs with Zeth and a once again teary Melina.

"Melina, he's going to be fine," Laura assured the younger woman as she grasped her arms.

"I know. I'm just so _happy_ ," the younger woman told her. Laura could only laugh as Zeth rolled his eyes, and drug Melina from the room. Laura nearly bumped headlong into Murphy and Bernice as she turned to follow.

"I'm going back to the office to get started on these thank you notes," Bernice told her, holding up a stack of a couple dozen cards.

"Thanks, Bernice." Laura's relief was evident. It would be one less thing to do once Remington was well and she was able to return to the office. She gave Bernice a long hug.

"Yeah, well, I'm just glad he's going to make it. I never thought I'd look forward to hearing Mrs. Wolf again." Releasing her old friend, Bernice left and the number of visitors dwindled to one.

"How are you holding up, pal?" Murphy asked, looking her over. Circles had formed under her eyes these last days from lack of sleep, but she still appeared to be doing better than two days before.

"I'm fine. Really, Murph," she assured him. "I'm sorry about the other day," she apologized, scrunching her nose.

"Give yourself a break, pal. It's been a tough few days," he admonished lightly. "Sher's with the foreman at the offices right now, and Detective Jarvis is demanding I come in for an interview. I'll check back later. And partner? Take care of yourself."

"I will," she promised as they hugged.

After Murphy left, Laura looked around the waiting room and smiled. For the first time in three days… it was empty.

* * *

"Ah, Mrs. Steele, you're here," Dr. Kerr greeted her when he walked into the room she'd been deposited in. A nurse followed on his heels.

"Only under threat of being ratted out," she groused. The complaint drew a laugh from him.

"I see. You don't intend to inform Mr. Steele of your recent issues, then, I take it?"

"BP one-twenty-eight over eighty-four, pulse seventy-eight," the nurse recited, leaving the room at Kerr's nod.

"I'm fine," Laura answered as though the nurse had never spoken. "Remington needs to focus on getting well. I don't want him worrying about something that over with."

"If it's over, would he worry?" Kerr questioned, as he checked her eyes.

"Yes, he would," she affirmed, then huffed out an agitated puff of air. "And he'd drive me crazy in the process." Kerr chuckled at the disgruntled words.

"Now, how about food, fluid. Are you eating, drinking? Is it staying down?" She nodded.

"A family member has been making meals and bringing them to me. No problems since yesterday morning." She sat up a little straighter when she realized that was the truth.

"Good, good. Alright, you're free to go and I'll let Bennett know you've come by as promised." She slipped down off the table with a smile, then stopped short at his next words. "But I want to see you down here tomorrow morning and again after lunch." She frowned up at the man.

"It's not necessary. I'm fine," she insisted again.

"Mrs. Steele, your blood pressure and pulse are still elevated. Not as much as they were, but still high for yourself. Mr. Steele may be on his way to recovery, but _you_ are still feeling the effects of the last days. If I were to guess, I would bet you still haven't gotten more than a couple hours of sleep each night." She shifted on her feet, crossed her arms and looked away from him, confirming his suspicions. "Let's see how things look tomorrow and we'll go from there."

"Fine," she ground out, none too pleased. "Are we done?"

"We are." At his words, Laura swiftly left the room without so much as a goodbye. Kerr was left chuckling. _Mr. Steele has his hands full with that one,_ he thought to himself. He couldn't help but feel a little envious.


	25. Chapter 25: Sir Surly

Chapter 25: Sir Surly

"Melina, enough already," Remington groused, as his little sister began crying again for the third time in a half hour. "Need I remind you again that I'm fine."

"I'm just happy. We thought we might have lost you, Xen," she sniffled in response.

"Then for Christ's sake, smile or laugh," he protested. "All the tears are enough to make a man think you know something he doesn't!"

"Xenos," Elena scolded at his use of the epitaph. She lifted another spoonful of broth towards his mouth. Lifting his hand slightly from the bed, he held the fingers up.

"Sorry, sorry," he apologized after swallowing. Bemused, Laura watched from her chair next to the bed where she was sitting eating her dinner, also under Elena's watchful eyes. He glanced at her plate not for the first time. "One would think after four days of nary a bite to eat, a man would be entitled to a decent meal," he griped.

"Or one might think a man would be grateful to be alive to eat anything at all, instead of complaining non-stop," Zeth commented drily.

"He's always been very attached to his food," Christos recalled. "Remember when he tried to put a fork through my hand for swiping a piece of shrimp from his plate?" The comment brought a round of laughter from the Androkus family at the memory, a scowl from Remington and a look of open curiosity from Thomas and Laura.

"You'd already eaten your fair share," Remington defended.

"I thought Papa had brought home a wild boy from the movies. You know the one, Xen, where that photographer and his daughter find a boy in the jungle?"

" _The Jungle Book_ ," Laura answered with some confidence. Remington gave a shake of his head.

"No, love. _The Jungle Book_ wasn't released until sixty-seven, several years after I'd…gone," he corrected with a smile for her. "Christos references _Bomba the Jungle Boy,_ Johnny Sheffield, Peggy Ann Garner, Monogram Pictures, 1949. He was obsessed with the movie, was determined to go on safari and find his own boy one day."

"Then one day Papa brings him home," he hitched a thumb in Remington's direction. "Long scraggly hair, would barely speak a word, always watching us warily, but would fight you to the death if you came between him and his food."

"As well you would have if had it been months since you'd had a proper meal," Remington retorted with a laugh. Laura winced when she saw Thomas's mournful expression, and wondered precisely how much of his childhood Remington had shared with his father. "Besides, I seem to recall we settled that matter fairly quickly."

"Should I ask?" Laura drawled.

"I beat the tar out of him on the playground, after he tried to make off with half of my pita," Remington answered with a grin. Mildred, sitting beside Laura, muffled a laugh.

"Humiliating, that was. He was half my size…" Christos lamented.

"Yet still the two of you went at it at every turn of the head," Zeth laughed.

"You didn't get along?" Thomas stepped in to ask.

"To the contrary," Remington answered with a grin. "He was my best friend."

"Someone had to keep him in line," Christos retorted.

"These two, always full of the mischief," Marcos shared with Thomas.

"And I always left to put a stop to it," Zeth noted. "Elsewise I'd be left answering to Papa as to why I allowed them to stir up trouble yet again."

"Oh?" Laura asked, perking up, sensing these were stories she'd not been told. "What kind of mischief?" Mildred grinned at the question, curious herself, and patted Laura on the knee, a silent thank you for the question. Thomas leaned forward, bracing himself on elbows propped against his knees, interested himself in this small piece of his son's childhood.

"Thea Hanna's… unmentionables… disappearing from her clothesline where they'd been left to dry, only to be found five houses down hanging on a neighbor's line," Zeth offered.

"An empty pie tin on my sister Iezabel's window sill, where once a pie had been left cooling." This from Marcos.

"It was a very good pie, too," Christos grinned. "Wasn't it, Xen?"

"Hmmmm. Tiropita, if I recall correctly. Very good." His eyes twinkled with merriment. "So much better than Thea Kyra's spanakopita." He feigned a shudder. " _That_ wasn't worth the punishment we served."

"Your Thea Ismene arriving home to find every photograph hung and standing upside down," Elena clucked, frowning at each of the men in turn. "She believed ghosts had come to call."

"And me, taken to task for not stopping you," Zeth added, indignantly.

"You complain now, brother, but then enjoyed blackmailing Xen and I into volunteering to do your chores lest you reveal our latest hijinks," Christos grinned. Zeth suddenly stood up straighter, as Elena's head turned and her eyes narrowed upon him.

"Is this true, Xenos?" she asked, her eyes never leaving her oldest son.

"Elena, what self-respecting lad of ten, eleven years regularly volunteers to scrub the loo—"

"Or the floors," Christos interrupted to add.

"Unless inspired to do so," Remington finished, flashing a smug smile in Zeth's direction in answer to the scowl aimed his way.

"Must I remind you, little brother, that there are payback for such… such… betrayal?" Zeth warned.

"And perhaps I should remind you in my… weakened state… in the face of such a threat I might unwittingly reveal secrets that have remained, until this day, sacred." Zeth actually blanched at the words.

"You wouldn't dare," he challenged.

"My brain is a bit hazy, so I might need to be sure of my facts first," Remington shrugged. "Chris, it _was_ Zeth who took Marco's brand new car across the island to visit…" he snapped his fingers in the air, pretending loss of memory, "…You know, the lass with the big…" he glanced downwards.

"Chris, Zen," Zeth tried to beseech, only to be ignored.

"Eyes," Christos inputted quickly. "Natassa," he chuckled appreciatively. "No, no, you're quite right. I remember having heard Zeth brag to his friends he was going to try to look upon… um, into those… _eyes_ … that evening." Zeth's eyes darted to his mother, who was once more scowling in his direction.

"Natassa?" Melina perked up at this. "But you told Calista you'd never even spoken to her." Zeth cursed his fate, having not a single doubt Melina would now use that information to her own advantage

"And when he became too friendly with those… _eyes_ … Did she not try to hit him with her purse?" Remington continued the game.

"She did. Hit the car instead, didn't she? Scratched it something terrible," Christos added. Grinning, Remington snapped his fingers together.

"Ah, that's right. And Marcos, not having noticed before he took it out, blamed some poor soul in the marina parking lot…"

"Is enough boys," Marcos cut in, laughing. He looked at Zeth. "Upon our arrival home you will, of course, make your explanations to Nikomedes Demetriou."

"Yes, Papa," Zeth answered, contritely, while slashing a look at Remington then Christos.

"Then you will visit Ioseph," Elena instructed. Zeth's jaw dropped opened and his eye widened.

"But Mama, it was twenty years ago!" he protested. Ioseph would have a field day with this one.

"Twenty-five, actually," Remington added, not so helpfully, with a smirk.

"Stay out of this," Zeth bit out.

"Sin knows no time," Elena answered, making it clear there was no further argument to be had.

"Yes, Mama," Zeth sighed, as he wished both his smug brothers to perdition.

Mildred elbowed Laura lightly in the ribs.

"Are they always like this?" she asked loud enough for the entire room to hear.

"Always," she confirmed, with a smile. "They seem to find great pleasure at throwing one another under the bus, _especially_ if it means one of them ends up at Iospeh's mercy."

"Iospeh?"

"Remington's cousin. He's a Priest and takes it upon himself to save the souls of the Androkus family," she filled Mildred in. She didn't register the smile lifting Zeth's lips until it was too late.

"Speaking of Iospeh, sister-in-law," he addressed her, as he crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall, "I'm sure you and Xen have regularly gone to Mass, confession, in the months since last you were in Greece, have you not?" Laura's eyes widened and her head yanked to Elena before her eyes returned to him.

"Hey! No fair! I didn't do anything. I'm merely married to man. Leave me out of it!" she protested.

"Too late," Remington muttered under his breath, shooting a scowl of his own in Zeth's direction this time.

"When you visit in June, you will see Ioseph," Elena directed simply.

"Yes, Elena," they both dutifully answered.

"Ah, my brother, you've no idea the hounds of hell you've set loose now," Christos laughed, clapping Zeth on his shoulder. Zeth was wise enough to look concerned at the comment.

"What do you mean?" he demanded to know, while straightening up.

"What life without…" Remington began, then looked to his wife.

"… A little mystery," she finished, slanting a glance at Zeth, already considering what shoes might be suitable when she was four-and-a-half months pregnant…

* * *

At eight o'clock a nurse had discretely ducked her head in to remind everyone still gathered that visiting hours were over. If anyone thought she'd be going home, they had another thing coming. Maternity suites allowed for spouses to stay over, and if someone had an issue with her staying in this room, they could take it up with Kerr as far as she was concerned. The suite offered a couch which would serve suitably as a bed, and she had no intention of sleeping at home unless Remington was there as well.

Perching a hip on the edge of his bed, she lifted a hand to caress his cheek. When she'd returned to his room after the check-up with Kerr, she'd found him freshly shaven, hair combed and in a gown. As attractive as she found his lightly whiskered face any other time, right now it had served of a visible reminder of what had brought it to pass. His blue eyes studied the play of emotions across her face. Carefully she leaned forward and rested her forehead against his.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. He frowned at her choice of words. Patting her hip, he clutched it and gave it a slight tug.

"Come, come lay down with me, love." Sitting back up, she looked down at him, uncertainly.

"I don't know if that's wise, given..."

"I need to feel you next to me, Laura," he told her, knowing if she wouldn't do it for her own comfort she wouldn't be able to deny him if it were for his. She worried her bottom lip with her teeth as she considered the request, then carefully reclined next to him. Once again, a hand on her hip nudged her. "A bit closer." She wriggled over until she was pressed against his side, and her head rested against his shoulder. The rich, earthy smell of him mixed with his cologne wafted around her. Closing her eyes, she inhaled deeply

"A shave _and_ cologne?" she inquired, trying to keep her tone light.

"Mmmmm," he hummed, but having none of it. "What exactly is it that you're sorry for? Hmmmm?" He felt the tension in her hips at the question.

"Clarissa." He nodded his head.

"So that's what you've been masticating on while I was…" he frowned, and tilted his head from side-to-side, "…unavailable, eh?"

"I was out of line." He heaved a sigh.

"You were," he agreed. "But do you believe I didn't know precisely how you'd react? Bloody hell, it stunned me, and I knew quite for certain the child wasn't mine as it would require a deed she and I have _never_ engaged in."

"I _know_ you'd never abandon your child, just as I _know_ nothing happened between you and Clarissa," she paused, and said in an undertone "…at least in my head I do." She let out a puff of air, still angry with herself. "I have no acceptable explanation. It…" she shook her head, unwilling to finish the sentence.

"It all goes back to my attempt to wed the woman, and my betrayal of your trust then." She didn't answer, merely drew patterns on his cloth covered chest with the tips of two fingers. "Do I hope there'll come a day when you trust in me without first questioning if you should? I do. But what matters is you came to the conclusion on your own."

"If you had…" she couldn't finish the sentence, "And it had been the last thing you remembered…" She shook her head.

"Do you honestly believe my last thoughts would have been of an argument? Hmmmmm?" He puffed out a breath of air when she remained quiet. "They would have been of how bloody lucky I was to have you in my life, and to have this, even if for not near long enough." Blinking her eyes rapidly, she nodded her head. Carefully, she pressed up on her forearm and threaded the fingers of her other hand through his hair.

"I love you," she whispered, moist brown eyes holding bright blue ones. With a great deal of concentration, he slowly lifted his arm so not to pull on the staples, and buried his hand in her hair.

"And if I were to have one regret," he told her, "it would be not giving you the words often enough… I love you, Laura." He gently pressed his hand against the back of her head. "Come here." He felt the shiver course through her body when their lips first touched. Tilting her head back, she assured herself he wasn't hurting, then leaned in again. She fed on his lips, savoring the taste she'd feared she'd never know again. Only when he hummed, and pressed more firmly against her head, trying to deepen the kiss, did she slip away.

"We have to stop," she told him, then touching her lips to his one last time, she lay beside him, nestling her head into his shoulder again.

"Words I'd dearly hoped never to hear again," he groused. She laughed softly against his shoulder. His fingers stroked her hip, a smile lifting his lips each time her bottom twitched at the sensation or she shifted ever over slightly… a man's got to have his fun after all… while he tried to figure out how to ask the question on his mind or if he even should. Finally, with a shake of his hand, he asked the singular word. "Anna?" Surprisingly, he felt no tension in her body at the question, she merely bent her head back so she could see him when he answered.

"Dead." He closed his eyes at the single word response, opening them when he felt her hand resting against his cheek. "I'm sorry. I know you once cared deeply for her." His brows knitted at the last.

"Those feelings have long been gone… any trace of what was left, eradicated three years ago when she made it clear who and what she was. That she would have killed you and our child, not only willingly but gleefully? I don't know what it says about me, that the only thing I feel at the news is… relief." Laura nodded her understanding.

"The same thing it says about me, I suppose," she offered, honestly. "We're not taking pleasure in her death, Remington. We're relieved the threat is past. A very human reaction, as you're always telling me."

"True. True." He was silent for a long while as his energy began to peter and, with eyes closed, he focused on her warmth against his side, the scent of honeysuckle, grass and sunshine inebriating his senses and the motion of her fingers against his chest. "You'll stay?" he murmured.

"Get some sleep, Mr. Steele. I'll be here when you wake," she assured him. He merely hummed and nodded his head.

She remained at his side until long after he'd fallen asleep then gently eased herself out of his embrace and the bed. Leaning down, she pressed a soft kiss against his lips, then stroked his cheek, before regretfully walking away and preparing for bed.

* * *

On Saturday, Remington was at last freed from all tubes and wires, except the IV line attached to the PCA. That anything at all remained and he was still not permitted to take a proper shower was enough to create a downward turn in his mood. That he'd been unable to help Laura as he'd listened to her retch behind the bathroom door, made him feel all but useless, only further blackening his disposition. He snipped and he sniped throughout the morning as she prayed for patience. Being permitted to dress in his own pajamas and robe, so long as the pants remained low and away from the incision, perked up his mood for a bit. But, by the time he'd finished his second short walk around the halls of the floor, he'd moved beyond cranky to positively surly.

He'd put on a good show, she'd credit him at least that, when first Thomas and then Mildred had come by for a visit. For them he was charming and gregarious. His demeanor should have, perhaps, had Laura breathing a sigh of relief; instead, she'd gnashed her teeth together before leaving him in their capable hands and going down to the emergency room to see Kerr. It shouldn't have surprised her that her blood pressure and pulse had been higher than they'd been the day prior. She'd gotten little sleep the night before, as Remington had been restless, his groans of discomfort enough to draw her from her sleep. Each time, she'd depressed the button on the PCA, providing him a small dose of morphine, then had soothed him with her touch until he slept soundly again. She'd run out of her lozenges the day prior, and had paid for that oversight by landing on her hands and knees in the bathroom. Then, of course, there was his mood to contend with. She'd fairly stomped from the room when Kerr had announced he'd see her again that afternoon… after reminding her she needed to eat and sleep, keep her stress at a minimum. She'd nearly snorted at the recommendation, but instead had ground her teeth, plastered a false smile on her face and nodded her agreement.

She stopped on the way back to Remington's room to get hot water so she could make herself a cup of ginger tea, and, in a moment of grudging consideration, had purchased him a tea as well. She ran into Mildred in the hallway outside of his room as she was departing.

"The Boss is in a mood, huh?" Mildred asked, giving Laura the once over as she did so. Laura gave a beleaguered sigh at the question.

"Please tell me Sir Surly hasn't been taking his mood out on you and Thomas as well." She was unable to keep her irritation out of her voice. Mildred shook her head and gave a wave of her hand.

"Nah. He's been the perfect host. His father hasn't a clue. Me on the other hand?" Mildred hitched a thumb towards herself. "I've been around long enough to know what that twitch in his jaw and those pouty lips mean. Been giving you a hard time, has he?"

"Nothing I can't handle," she answered, then muttered under her breath, "Or smother him for." Mildred laughed at the last.

"Oh, honey, I know it's gotta be hard," she commiserated. "But a piece of advice? Try to remember it was only a few days ago you were wondering if he'd ever drive you crazy again." As the memory of those days swamped her, Laura nodded her head rapidly, blinking her eyes.

"You're right, you're right." With two cups of tea in hand she managed an awkward embrace of the other woman. "Thank you, Mildred. I don't know what we'd do without you." Mildred patted her back, doing some blinking of her own.

"Hopefully none of us will have to find out the answer to that for a long time," she answered.

"From your lips…" Laura let the words trail off and they ended the embrace.

"And get him to use that button," Mildred advised, beginning to bustle away. "The Boss is in pain, if you ask me."

Laura raised her eyes heavenward and mumbled to herself at the parting words. That was, of course, the heart of the matter. He was in pain, but his inherent dislike of anything which would dull the senses meant he was stubbornly refusing to depress the button which would send a small booster of morphine into his system, providing some relief. With a long exhale through pursed lips, she fortified herself, then pushed through the door into his room. She found Remington sitting in a chair, much to her displeasure, while speaking with his father.

"I brought you some tea," Laura told Remington, thrusting the cup in his direction, causing a bit to splash over the side and onto the leg of his pajama pants. He glowered at her as he brushed at the dampness.

"A little care, please, Laura," he barked. Thomas's brows raised almost to his hairline at the tone, and saw the bit of temper as a cue for him to depart. Standing, he leaned down to embrace his son.

"Catherine and I will be by to visit again after our midday meal. Take care, son." With a light clasp of Remington's arm, Thomas stood and turned to Laura, embracing her, then departed.

Nursing her tea, while surreptitiously keeping an eye on her husband and gauging how he was feeling, Laura wandered around the room straightening up. Folding her pajamas, she returned them to her small bag. She pulled up then smoothed the sheets and blanket on his bed. Lifting her hand, she kneaded her brows with her fingers as she stared at his untouched breakfast tray, knowing the response she was about to receive.

"Remington, you need to eat your break—"

"I'd sooner eat the raw squid you once dared me to partake of," he sniffed. "The fare to which they so optimistically ascribe the word 'food,' I assure you, is barely edible slop."

"That may be, but you heard Bennett, you need to—"

"It's bad enough," he interrupted again, "That I'm kept at the mercy of others as to whether or not I'll be permitted bathe, to dress properly, or be free of tubes and hoses invading my person," she lifted her eyes heavenward at the dramatics, "But I'll not also be forced to ingest what amounts to little more than cardboard soaked in water." She eyed the oatmeal to which he referred, while rubbing more vigorously at her brow.

"How about the Jell-o, then? I can't imagine even a hospital could—"

"If I wouldn't consume cow bones or pig hooves as part of my normal diet, I can't imagine why I'd be willing to do so merely because they have been served up in a colorful, gelatinous form," he retorted. She stared at the Jell-o with sudden distaste.

"You're joking, right?"

"Not in the least." Her stomach churned as she wondered how many hooves and bones she'd consumed over the course of her lifetime.

"Alright, we can order something in or I'll have someone pick up—"

"Laura, just leave it be!" he snapped, launching himself upwards. Drawing in a harsh lungful of air, he sat down heavily, legs and hands shaking from the stabbing pain that ripped through his side and abdomen at the sudden movement. Laura's heart fell to her toes as she watched the color drain from his face.

"Are you alright?" she asked, her voice gone an octave higher in her fear that he'd torn a staple, damaged the repairs made. She rushed across the room to him, as visions of another surgery, more days by his bedside praying he'd awaken danced through her imagination. She clasped his face between her own shaking hands, her eyes studying his intently. "Should I have Dr. Bennett paged?"

"I'm fine…fine…" he panted. "Just moved too fast… It'll pass." Plucking the handheld patient button off the machine, she pressed it into his hand.

"Enough with the heroics, Mr. Steele. There's already been one too many instance of them in this last week, in my opinion. You're in pain. It'll only hamper your recovery. Use the medication," she insisted.

"For Christ's sake, will you stop nattering and leave me be?!" he bellowed, tossing the button away in his agitation. This time, it was Laura's face that drained of color, the words stinging as much as a slap in the face. Standing she blanked her face and gave her head a single, sharp nod.

"Alright." A single word uttered, and she drew herself up to full height. Striding towards the door, she nearly stumbled when she saw Christos standing there, for the briefest of moments wondering how long he'd been present, what he'd seen and heard. Slipping between him and the door jamb she left the room. He watched her retreating form before stepping fully into the room and watching as his brother lifted a hand to rub at his face as he dropped the bag he was carrying onto the bed.

"Feeling better today, big brother?" he asked, from a step behind Remington.

"Fine, fine. Nearly good as n—" His words were cut off when he saw stars as a large palm collided with the back of his head. "What the-!" he sputtered, indignantly, rubbing at the spot. "Christos, need I remind you I was lying upon death's doorway but a couple days ago?!"

"No reminders needed, brother. It's the only thing preventing me from having a good go at you," he retorted as he took a seat on the couch across from Remington.

"Would you mind, then, telling me what in the bloody hell has gotten into you?" Remington demanded, a leery look crossing his face when the normally good natured Christos glowered at him.

"I believe it is I who should be asking that question of you," Christos bit back. "You speak to Laura in such a manner, take your ills out upon her? You are fortunate it was I, not Mama or Papa, who walked through those doors. Mama would have you on your knees before Ioseph for failing to honor your wife, and Papa? You know as well as I, the walls would be coming down around you in his fury! _Rightfully so_!" Remington shifted uncomfortably at the thought.

"Perhaps I was a bit out of line," he conceded, hoping at least to quell Christos's anger.

"A bit? _A bit?!_ " Christos mocked, his voice growing louder as his brother's words only further infuriated him. "Have you any idea the toll your injury took upon _her_ as you laid about—"

"Laid about?!" Remington guffawed, interrupting this time. "I wasn't aware that's what I'd been doing. I rather thought…" His irritated rejoinder came to an abrupt end, eyes narrowing as his mind latched onto a single word uttered by Christos. "What _toll?_ "

"Have you even bothered to ask, Xen?" Christos asked, his voice lowering in disappointment.

"Of course, I have," Remington took offense. "Shouldn't you know me better? I asked how she and… how she was and she stated she was fine, unharmed."

"Much as she claimed during your last visit to the island, after that barbarian had her in his clutches," Christos pointed out. "Then you didn't believe her, why do you now?" The question gave Remington pause, and when the answer came, he didn't particularly like himself for it. Letting out a sigh and tracking fingers through his hair, he shook his head.

"Tell me." At those two words, Christos leaned forward, his elbows propped against knees, hands clasped, knuckles whitening.

"She sat by your bedside day and night, speaking to you, sleeping little. Food would not stay down. Why do you think Mama has resorted to cooking her meals meant to quell the sickness of pregnancy?" He flipped a hand towards the bed where the bag sat, before clasping his hands back together. Unable to stop it, a smile twitched at Remington's lips at the reminder of the child they were expecting. "But the worst of it, Xen…" The smile left Remington's lips when Christos grew somber, troubled. "The screams from her nightmares last fall?" Remington nodded. "I'd rather hear those again a thousand times over, than to watch her break as she did. Unable to breathe, blaming herself, only calmed by an injection and even after, making me promise to stay at your side, to watch over you." Remington closed his eyes, grimacing at the realization she'd had a panic attack, left all but alone to deal with it herself. Opening his eyes, he rubbed hard at his mouth.

"What else?" he ground out.

"Is it not enough?" Christos demanded, voice and temper rising again. "And even then, should it have a bearing upon how you treat your wife when she does nothing more than see to your comfort, worry for you?" Remington held up his hand in concession.

"You're right, you're right." With a swipe at his face, he looked directly at his brother. "I'll make my amends."

"See to it that you do," Christos answered as he stood. Walking to the bed he picked up the bag and returning to where Remington sat, removed a covered dish and handed it to him. "From Mama. I've been instructed to inform you lunch and dinner will be forthcoming and should she find any of it uneaten, you'll have her to answer to." Bag in hand, he headed towards the door to the room.

"Leaving so soon?" Remington asked, looking over his shoulder.

"I'm off in search of my sister-in-law, on Mama's orders to see to it she eats," he answered swinging open the door. He paused before leaving. "I'd nearly forgot given events I walked in upon. A horse was delivered to your house this morning. As you've no stables, Papa has asked for guidance on what to do with the animal."

"Ah, damn," Remington muttered. _Out of the frying pan and into the fire_ , he thought to himself, lifting hand to mouth to nibble at a thumbnail. "I'll see to it arrangements are made."

With an unseen nod, Christos departed.


	26. Chapter 26: No Rest for the Weary

Chapter 26: No Rest for The Weary

When Laura returned to Remington's room, she found him sound asleep in his bed. That was alright by her, not only because it would dispel with any further displays of temper on his part, but a nap sounded _very_ appealing to her at the moment given the number of times she'd been drawn from sleep the night prior. Kicking off her shoes and retrieving pillow and blanket from the bottom dresser drawer, in mere minutes she was curled up on the couch, sound asleep herself. But suffer the fool who believed hospitals were meant for resting as one healed. First a nurse bustled through to check Remington's PCA, then food services arrived with his lunch tray, followed by housekeeping to change out towels and washcloths, and finally Dr. Bennett himself appeared. Remington had managed to sleep through all but the last visit, as the poking and prodding, questions and answers required by Bennett would allow nothing else.

Throughout Bennett's exam, Remington surreptitiously observed Laura, noting the fine lines around her eyes, the slight crinkling of her forehead, her rigid shoulders, and that every now and again, she rolled her head as though her neck were bothering her. When her thumb wasn't worrying the back of her wedding band, it was flicking across the nails of her hand… all telltale signs of suppressed anxiety and he'd not taken a note of a one of them. Of equal concern, now, was the shuttered eyes that met his as Bennett spoke with him, a sure sign those walls she used to protect herself had gone up. He'd made a bloody mess of things, for certain. As soon as Bennett turned to leave, he deftly reached for her hand to keep her near, but given his limited range of motion, she easily slipped away.

"Laura, we need to talk," he called at her departing back, not caring in the least if a hint of desperation traced through his words.

"There's no need," she dismissed in that nonchalant manner of hers which meant discussion was very much needed.

"I disagree," he answered patiently. Shoving blanket and pillow in the dresser, she turned to face him, arms crossed, face blanked.

"Let's just leave it alone, shall we? We've more important things to worry about." His brows knitted together at the words

"Such as the toll this has taken on you?" he volleyed back. Her only acknowledgement of his words was a flex of her fingers against her arm and a turn of her head towards the wall. The action piqued his temper. "Bloody hell, Laura, don't shut me out! I thought we'd finally gotten past this nonsense… the hiding, the half-truths, the pretenses!"

"Are you speaking about me… or yourself?" she retorted, fire glinting in her eyes as her head snapped around to face him. Her fury certainly wasn't his goal, but he'd take it. He'd had years of practice soothing an agitated Miss Holt.

"Do I need to say I was a buggering prick to you this morning?" he challenged, his voice softening, allowing his regret to show freely as he eased himself from the bed and gingerly moved in her direction. "I was. That I foolishly rejected your offer of aid, of comfort? I did that as well." Stopping in front of her, he dared to reach up and cup her cheek. "That I'm sorry beyond measure? I am." She rubbed her arms and looked away from him again.

"You're a lousy patient," she grumbled. One corner of his mouth quirked up, his hands grasping her shoulders and pulling her close, his arms enveloping her.

"Something we share in common then, eh?" She barked a short, breathy laugh against his shoulder. "I'm sorry," he apologized again, voice filled with contrition, while pressing his cheek against the side of her head and closing his eyes.

"I just don't like seeing you in pain… here. I want you home," Laura confessed, speaking into his shoulder. Such admission still didn't come easily for her, he knew. He nodded his head rapidly.

"You'll get no argument from me on either count," he concurred, bussing her on top of her head. "I can't think of anything I want more." A hand stroked down the length of her arm, before grasping her own hand. "Come, sit with me. I'm feeling a touch unsteady on my feet." Her head jerked up at the admission, but she didn't question the request.

Laura waited as Remington situated himself on the couch, then, when he tugged at her hand, lay down, carefully lying her head on his lap at his silent request.

"Shouldn't _you_ be the one lying down, Mr. Steele?" she asked quizzically.

"Ah, but then I'd be unable to do this," he replied, pulling her shirt out from beneath the waistline of her shorts and slipping his hand under the material. His sensitive fingers skimmed over her stomach before his hand settled at its center. When she looked up at him, intense blue eyes bored into questioning amber ones.

"What is it?"

"Tell me, truthfully, how are you and the babe?"

"We're fine. I've already…" She didn't complete the sentence, when she watched his tongue trace the inside of his cheek before his lips tightened.

"Lau-ra," he elongated her name in warning. "Why are you under Kerr's care if all is—" Their heads turned in unison toward the door at the tapping upon it. Laura rose to tuck back in her shirt, while walking towards the door. "Bloody hell, will we ever have a moment of privacy? A man's trying to heal around here," Remington bellowed the last in the direction of the door, scowling at her when she shushed him and waved her hand in the motion simultaneously before opening the door.

"Mrs. Steele, Mr. Steele," Detective Jimmy Jarvis greeted as he entered the room.

"Detective," Laura greeted, holding her hand out towards the sitting area in the room.

"Jarvis," Remington greeted succinctly.

"I'm sorry to bother you, folks," he told the couple, whilst shuffling his feet, "But I've put off interviewing you as long as I can. You know how it is," he gestured, helplessly. "The brass are breathing down my neck to get this thing wrapped up."

"Have a seat," Laura offered. Sitting down next to Remington, she lay a hand atop his thigh before redirecting her attention to Jarvis. "Let's just get through this as quickly as possible. Mr. Steele is clearly still recovering and needs his rest."

"I understand. I'll try to make this as painless as possible," Jarvis agreed, flipping open the memo book in his hand. "We have three dead: Lydia Van Owen, Andrew Morton and one unknown subject. Ballistics has identified three separate weapons: Mr. Michaels', which was turned over for testing; the revolver registered to yourself, Mrs. Steele; and, a Rossi thirty-eight special revolver located close to Van Owen's body, serial numbers filed off. According to ballistics, the bullets found in Morton, the unknown suspect and… uh…" he shifted uncomfortably, shooting Remington an apologetic look, "… the bullet turned over by the hospital … uh… from yourself… Mr. Steele, were all fired by the Rossi. I've already interviewed Mr. Michaels. From what I gathered from him, Morton was a client?"

"He was," Laura confirmed. "He hired the Agency last Monday to investigate a bizarre string of attempts on his life, and to uncover who was behind it. According to the information we were provided, he'd gone to the LAPD for assistance with little help offered. Since Mr. Steele was out of country, Murphy Michaels has been acting as my partner on this one."

"Why was he at your old place?" Jarvis asked, scribbling in his pad.

"On Saturday afternoon, we were called to Mr. Morton's home. Someone had been shooting at him through the windows in his dining area. Since there were multiple instances of attempts on his life while at home, we thought the safest course would be to move him to somewhere less known," she provided.

"And the woman? Friend, girlfriend?" At the question, Laura glanced towards Remington. To the best of her memory, he'd never realized Minor DesCoine was in the loft.

"Minor DesCoines." Jarvis's eyes lifted from the pad he was writing on, while Remington's head snapped in her direction, confirming her suspicions. "An-, Lydia Van Owen and she had created a… partnership, of sorts, from what Van Owen told me," she explained.

"Minor—" Jarvis began in surprise then stopped, holding up a hand and refocusing. "Why were you at the loft, Mrs. Steele?" Murphy had, of course, already provided this information, but Jarvis wanted to confirm their stories jived.

"Murphy and I had been checking on Morton each day, to see if there had been any issues, if he needed anything. Since Murph had gone the morning prior, I was taking my turn."

"And when you arrived, what happened?" Jarvis pressed. She shook her head and held up a hand.

"I knocked and when he didn't answer, I went in," she answered, dropping her hand back onto Remington's thigh. His hand covered hers and squeezed lightly. "Within a few seconds, I saw his shoes peeking out from behind the couch. I went to check on him. There was nothing that could be done. It was only when I stood up that I saw the woman lying on the floor near my desk."

"You knew it was DesCoine?" the detective queried.

"Not at first," she shook her head. "Not until I checked her pulse, then I saw… She was gone as well."

"Walk me through what happened next."

"I picked up the phone to call the LAPD. Before I could dial, An-… Van Owen had her gun pointed at my back." Remington's hand gripped hers almost painfully. Pulling her hand away, she exchanged places, her hand atop of his and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

"Keep going," Jarvis directed. "I'll let you know when to stop." With a shrug she did as he asked.

"We spoke, although she did most of the talking. She told me she'd used Morton to set us up. The—"

"How did she know Morton?" the detective interrupted

"She met him at the prison," she provided. "He was there to see her cellmate. Van Owen said his name amused her. He seemed taken with her, so she played on that… Promised to make every one of his fantasies come true if he helped her get out. But in the end, she didn't need his help… at least, not with that."

"Why is that?" Jarvis asked, jumping on the statement.

"Anthony Roselli," she informed him, lifting and dropping her hand again. "He not only had her released from the prison under the guise of deportation but introduced her to Minor, as well."

"I'll bloody well wring the life from his body should I ever have the opportunity," Remington exploded.

"I don't think that opportunity is likely to present itself, Mr. Steele," she reminded him, rubbing the hand beneath hers. "Now, calm down before you pop a staple."

"What was DesCoine's part in all of this?" Jarvis inquired, directing their attention back to the interview.

"A distraction. I'm fairly certain we can credit her for the hit-and-run on Mildred, then ourselves. We already know she took shots and Mr. Steele and I up in the Canyon, of course."

"I'd lay odds it was she behind the ambush at Meyerson's office, as well," Remington added.

"You're right," she agreed, her attention focusing on her partner as she drew the two words out. "I'd forgotten."

"I can see how," he riposted drolly. "All part of the day-to-day grind. Find a clue, find a suspect, get pinned down in a hail of bullets, dinner at eight." A wide grin spread across her face and she nipped her lower lip, recalling the conversation he was referring to some three years before.

* * *

" _ **Oh, believe me, after a while, it gets just as predictable as any other job. Find a body, find some clues, find the killer."**_

* * *

"I'm a bit confused, Mrs. Steele," Jarvis interceded, while scratching his head to emphasize his confusion. "If Morton and DesCoine were Van Owen's partners, why take them out?" Laura returned her focus to the detective.

"It was all part of her plan. After I was dead…" She paused when Remington's hand twitched at the suggestion, and tangled her fingers with his. "After I was dead, she planned to leave the gun on Minor's person to make it appear she'd killed both Morton and me."

"Which would explain the single, close contact shot to her temple," Jarvis mused. "After Van Owen kills you, she places the gun in DesCoine's hand. It would seem open and shut, a case of revenge, and your innocent client caught in the middle. So, what happened?"

"Mr. Steele figured out the clues left behind and arrived at the loft just as she cocked the hammer back on her gun. He—"

"Stop," Jarvis ordered, lifting his hand in the gesture. "Mr. Steele, what clues were those?"

"Once Michaels began naming the suspects in the case, I realized each were a character in a movie in which Humphrey Bogart appeared," he shrugged. "Coincidentally, each person's reason for revenge echoed a storyline within those movies. Meant to be a message to me… after… telling me who was truly responsible for Laura's murder."

"How would Van Owen know you'd put it together?" the detective asked, his mannerisms questioning the validity of the story. Laura's fingers squeezed Remington's.

"Detective Jarvis, for _years_ the society pages have made mention of Mr. Steele's love of the movies, particularly film noir," Laura answered, deflecting Jarvis's attention from Remington. "In fact, he often draws parallels for our clients between old movies and the case we are working. Van Owen was, if you recall, a client until we realized her intent to commit two murders – Merleau's and my husband's."

"Gee, Mrs. Steele, I'd forgotten she was once a client," Jarvis apologized, feigning embarrassment. "I guess that would explain things…"

"Cut the Barney Fife routine, Jarvis," Laura demanded, eyes hardening on the man. "The act lost its effectiveness years ago… the first time DesCoine appeared in our lives, as a matter of fact." Jarvis flashed her a smile. He'd always respected the woman's no nonsense approach.

"So, you arrived at Mrs. Steele's old place and found what?" Jarvis asked Remington, resuming questioning.

"Van Owen with a gun in her hand, pointed at Laura," Remington responded, elaborating no further.

"Then what?" Jarvis pressed.

"Mr. Steele managed to take a couple steps forward, so I was able to see the Agency revolver tucked under his belt," Laura intervened again. "Van Owen…" She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, releasing a long, slow breath before opening her eyes again and continuing. "She aimed the gun at me, but Mr. Steele tackled me, taking us both to the floor. When I saw her raising the gun to shoot again, I grabbed the Agency gun and shot her first. I thought… I'd killed her, so I dropped the gun."

"Van Owen was shot again…" Jarvis led.

"She was. I was… distracted. By the time I realized she was preparing to shoot again, my gun was too far away for me to retrieve it in time." Remington didn't miss the shudder that passed through her body at the memory, although outwardly she appeared perfectly calm.

"Which is where Michaels arrived," Remington stepped in. "Who, as you pointed out, has already given you his statement." Slowly easing himself to his feet, he kept hold of Laura's hand leaving her no choice but to do the same. "Now, if you don't mind, you've your answers and I need to lay back down," Remington told the detective, effectively dismissing him.

"Just a couple more questions, and we'll be done," Jarvis answered, choosing to ignore the invite to leave.

"Detective Jarvis," Laura bit out, "Do I honestly need to remind you my husband has not only been recently shot but has barely—" Her words were cut off when the door swung open.

"Uncle Remington!" Laurie Beth shrieked, yanking her hand from her sister's and barreling towards her favorite uncle. Remington braced himself for the impact, when an arm swept out and neatly stopped the little girl in her tracks.

"Thank you, Jarvis." Remington let out a breath of relief, as he walked the rest of the way to the bed. Laura yanked down sheet and blanket as he gingerly sat on the edge and eased himself back.

"Who are you?" Laurie Beth asked, cocking her head backwards to look up at the detective as the rest of the Piper/Holt clan entered the room.

"I'm a police officer. I'm—"

"He's just leaving," Laura stated bluntly, leveling a look on the detective which brooked no argument. "Say goodbye to Detective Jarvis, Laurie Beth."

"Bye-bye," she waved, skipping across the room to Remington's bedside, then looking up at her aunt. "Aunt Laura, can I sit with Uncle Remington?" Laura's brows knitted together.

"I don't think that's a good idea, sweetie. Uncle Remington—"

"I tell you what," Remington interrupted, giving the little girl a very serious look, "If you promise to sit very quietly next to me, and make certain those arms and legs don't poke me, I think we'll be just fine." The little girl's face lit up.

"I promise," she vowed, nodding her head vigorously and waited patiently as Laura smoothed sheet and blanket, then helped her up on the bed while Abigail and Frances walked around to the other side of the bed.

"Remington, we were all so relieved to hear you'd awakened," Abigail greeted, kissing him on the cheek then patting it. "We would have come by yesterday, but I thought it best if we waited so you might spend time with your father. Even if Laura couldn't be bothered to make the introductions—"

"Now, Mother, Laura made it very clear we shouldn't come to the hospital as she'd be with Remington," Frances reminded her, scooting past her mother to lean in and press a kiss on Remington's cheek. "We were beside ourselves when your friend called and gave Donald the news. The children couldn't go to school, Donald to work. Not until we knew you would be okay."

"Still, when we first arrived she was right there," Abigail continued as though she'd never been admonished. "Ten seconds, that's all it would have taken. Instead, I nearly made a fool of myself—"

"Remington," Donald stepped in, cutting off Abigail's complaints again. The two men shook hands, Donald clasping Remington's with both hands. "I take back what I said last year."

"Oh, and what was that?" Remington asked, a single brow quirking upwards.

"On the truck, remember? During that whole mess with the body in our kitchen?" Donald reminded him. Remington grinned when he recalled what Donald had said then.

* * *

" _ **Except this is probably routine stuff for you, right?... it must be something. Being Remington Steele, man of action, always in the thick of danger…**_ _ **What a**_ _ **life**_ _ **!"**_

* * *

"Aye. I, however, stand by what I told you: One never gets used to their life being in imminent danger," Remington answered. Donald nodded solemnly in answer as he released Remington's hand. Laurie Beth took the opportunity to curl her body into her uncle's side, resting her head on his shoulder. Automatically, his arm wrapped around the child.

"Uncle Remington," Mindy said, almost meekly as she stepped forward, and shyly handed him a piece of paper, "I made this for you. The leaves on my tree still aren't quite right, but we never had a chance…" Mindy's words trailed off with a sniffle and a sob, as tears began to roll down her face.

"Ah, ceann beag," he consoled, reaching up to thumb away the tears on one side of her face, "No need for tears. I'm here and I promise during our next visit, you and I will take the time to learn the finer aspects of drawing leaves." Mindy nodded her head rapidly, smiling past the tears, even as Laurie Beth sat up and plunked her hands on her hips.

"Hey, that's my name," she protested, jutting her lip out. Remington chuckled at her outrage.

"Indeed, it is, little one. I suppose I'll have to find another name for your sister, eh?" he asked, patting her hip. She nodded vigorously, before cuddling back up to him again. Danny gave Mindy's shirt a yank and slipped into the spot she'd been standing in.

"I can't believe you got shot!" he effused. "I mean, I thought that kind of thing only happened in the movies! What did it feel like?" Frances and Abigail gasped at the impertinence of the question.

"Daniel!" Donald barked out his name, horrified by his son's question. "Go have a seat on the couch and consider the number of reasons that question was inappropriate."

"Aw, geez, I was just curious. I mean, how many people will I know who've been shot that I can ask?" he griped, as he tromped across the room to the couch and flung himself down.

The door swung open, and into the already swarming room arrived all members of the Androkus family. Donald stepped back from Remington's bedside as Elena bustled up to Remington's side to hand him a container, before guiding Laura to a chair and pressing another container into her hands.

"Sit, eat," she directed her 'daughter-in-law', as Marcos stepped to the bed and bussed his boy on both cheeks.

"Xenos, we've had your horse delivered to the stables as directed, so you need not worry. He will be well cared for until you are able to play polo once more." Closing his eyes and grimacing, Remington prayed Laura had not overheard, an impossibility, of course, given Marcos's booming voice.

"Remington Chalmers Steele!" Laura spoke up, emphasizing each of his names in a manner that for the first time didn't leave him smiling. Laurie Beth leaned up on her arm to look down at her uncle, her eyes wide.

"Aunt Laura sounds like my Mommy when I'm in big trouble," she observed.

"Mmmm," he hummed. "She does at that, doesn't she?" He turned his head towards his wife. "Now, Laura, I can explain…"

"I'm all ears," she retorted, brows lifted, foot tapping on the floor in front of her, eleven pairs of eyes shifting first to her, then to Remington.

"Aw, geez," Remington mumbled under his breath, mimicking Danny. "Uh, it all started with Thomas, you see…"

(TBC)


	27. Chapter 27: A Bet

Chapter 27: A Bet

"Why are you under Kerr's care, Laura?" Remington asked quietly although his voice seemed to fill the dim room into which the city lights seeped through the blinds. He lay on his back on the bed, Laura tucked into his side, lulled by the whisper soft strokes of his fingers over her waist and stomach. He'd sought out her skin as soon as she'd nuzzled in next to him, his rapt attention focused on the area where their child was currently kept safe in its mother's womb, questioning if he was correct, that his sensitive fingers were indeed feeling a slight thickening at her slim waist.

Laura, her head resting against his shoulder, blinked several times, his familiar, feather light touch lulling her towards sleep. She searched her mind for the question which had barely registered, while loosening a few buttons on his pajama top, to slide her hand inside. She closed her eyes again, cherishing the familiarity of warm skin covered by a dense mat of hair. The man beneath her hands closed his eyes, losing himself, briefly, in the feeling of her small hand caressing him. Finally, he gave himself a mental shake, and reopened his eyes.

"Laura?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why are you under Kerr's care?" he repeated the question, briskly rubbing her arm with his hand to rouse her. With a growl of discontent, she forced her mind to kick into gear.

"Stress," she answered, at last. "It's a risk factor."

"Are you saying you could lose our child?" he asked in a strained voice, his body going rigid against hers. She stroked his chest several times, then began tracing patterns on the skin beneath her fingertips.

"The baby's fine, Mr. Steele. The worst of it is past and even then, the risk was minimal," she assured him.

"The worst." He latched onto the word. "Which means even now all is not well. Precisely how bad did things get?"

"I'm sure Kerr's going to release me tomorrow," she offered, neatly sidestepping the question in her opinion. He was having none of it.

"Don't try to placate me, Lau-ra," he retorted. "Damn it, how bad did it get?" She abruptly rolled away from him and left the bed.

"How bad do you think it got?" she asked, voice rising and tossing up her hands as she began to pace. "You were shot right in front of me, Mr. Steele. You tried to say your goodbyes," she accused, whirling to face him in the dim light of the room, before turning on her heel again and continuing to pace. "The ER, surgery. 'The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours will tell the tale'," she mocked, then sucked in a pained breath, "That's what I was told. Left to wonder if I'd lose you, if our child would never know their father, if I'd be—" Stilling, she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, blinking rapidly, refusing to give way to the tears that threatened. She pressed her palm to forehead, voice quieting. "It was everything I'd ever feared. In too deep, then you…" Dropping her hand, she embraced herself, hands rubbing at her arms, "… just gone… irrevocably gone… in a way I'd never even conceived." With a shake of her head, she sought composure and control.

"Tell me," he urged. Her eyes slanted towards him then away.

"What do you want to know, Remington?" she asked, wearily. "If I could eat? Well, I couldn't and when I tried, not much would stay down. If I could sleep? That escaped me for the most part, as well." Releasing herself so fingers could find a brow, as she remained eerily still in the center of the room. "I thought as long as you knew I was there, that I… we… needed you here…" She blew out a long breath. "Then when I couldn't fight it any longer… the dreams…" Her face tipped towards the ceiling and she embraced herself again. "Kerr tried. 'You have to eat, Mrs. Steele'… 'You need to sleep, Mrs. Steele'… "We need to get your blood pressure and pulse down, Mrs. Steele'" she imitated numbly. "He gave me something a few times, to try and help. But how was I supposed to do anything he was asking when I could only focus on two things? You… and just…" she shook her head "… breathing." He pursed his lips as they neared one of the matters which continued to weigh heavily on his shoulders.

"And did you? Continue to breathe?" he asked, adjusting himself slightly higher on the bed to keep her in his sight when she answered.

"For a while," she answered vaguely.

"What happened?" he questioned, probing her as the police might a nervous witness who was ready to bolt. Memories of the line on the heart monitor gone flat, the persistent drone of the alarm, the loud speaker announcing the code blue… his body arching from the bed as they tried to start his heart again danced across her vision. A frisson of fear skittered down her spine. Closing her eyes, she visually shook her head, forcing away the images.

"I couldn't remember," she answered instead, opening her eyes and rubbing away the goosebumps which had dotted her flesh. Easing himself from the bed, he approached her cautiously while pulling along his PCA.

"Couldn't remember, what?" Her brow crinkled at the question.

"When I'd last told you I love you… how much you mean to me. If you'd… If you hadn't known and had…" She let out a frustrated breath and looked away. He'd not a single doubt she'd allowed this to gnaw away at her, given the import of the words to her. Yet, he sensed there was something she was holding back, whatever it was she'd shook off, had led her to try to comfort herself. He knew better than to try to pry it out of her, as she'd simply withdraw into herself, perhaps strike out in anger, but either way she'd stop conversing and what he needed now to was to draw her out further, not chase her inwards. Cupping her face in his hands, he stroked her cheeks with his thumbs.

"Ah, Laura, as much as I cherish the words when you give them to me, do you think I don't know? Hmmmm?" he asked her quietly, ducking his head slightly to catch her eyes with his. "You show me every day. When you fall asleep at night next to me, wake beside me… make love with me. It's in your making _my_ dream of a home and family come true, while keeping alive _your_ dream of the Agency. You showed it a hundred different ways as I came to terms with Daniel and my father's deception. In stopping your day and putting aside time each evening so we could speak while I stayed behind in London." He gave her head a little shake. "Deeds, love, deeds." Leaning down he touched his lips to hers. When their lips parted, she looked at him, still troubled.

"If you rely solely on deeds, then what do my accusations about Clarissa tell you?" she asked.

"Come back to bed. I've been on my feet far too much today I think." Nodding, she rolled the PCA back in place near the bed then joined him once he was comfortable. "What happened at the doctor's office," he continued as though they'd never paused, "Only confirmed what a buggering idiot I was last spring and how deeply _my deeds_ made you doubt all that we'd been creating. A reflection of my deeds, not your own. Now, tell me the rest of it."

"Don't you already know?" she wondered, tipping her head back to look at him.

"Suspect," he clarified, looking down at her, his veracity showing in his gaze, "But know for certain? Not at all."

"I… broke… had a panic attack Wednesday afternoon," she confessed with a growl of frustration to underscore her displeasure at the remembrance and event.

"Like on the eve we returned from our honeymoon?" She gave him a rueful look.

"Worse, I think. I only recall snippets of it, more or less." Her brow wrinkled as she tried to remember. "Murph was there. I remember that. Trying to get me to focus on him, to talk to him. Kerr, at some point."

"It seems I owe Michael's yet again. At the rate we're going, I'll have to give him our first born," he quipped.

"The _hell_ you will," Laura rejoined vehemently. His lips lifted in a crooked smile.

"Become attached to the little tyke, have you then?" Looking downwards towards her stomach, she held her hand against it.

"You nearly gave your life to keep him safe." She looked back up at Remington and smiled as his hand covered hers. "He's not going anywhere. He's ours, Mr. Steele." He arched a brow at her.

"He, hmmmm?" She flicked a brow of her own at him.

"I had a dream. He was charming, intelligent, creative, good humored and the spitting image of his father," she shared. "He was… beautiful." To his utter mortification, he felt a tingle behind his eyes as they moistened, so touched was he. He cleared his throat and fought back the impulse.

"Are you saying, Mrs. Steele, that your dream of what our first child will be trumps my own? Hmmmm?" he teased.

"Not necessarily…" she ran a finger down his throat. "But a bet might be interesting," she challenged, the brown eyes that met his sparkling with mischief. He shifted very slightly beneath her.

"Oh, and do you have terms in mind?"

"I do," she drew out the second word. "Whoever is correct gets to choose where we go for a long weekend six weeks after Baby Steele arrives." He lifted a finger to scratch the side of his nose and looked at her queerly.

"Is there a particular reason for that specific time frame?" She widened her eyes at him, while her lips twitched with amusement.

"Why, Mr. Steele, haven't those books of yours provided an answer to that question?" she teased. His look turned wary.

"Why is it I have a sudden feeling that I'll not be too fond of the information you're about to impart? Hmmmm?" The statement drew a laugh from her.

"Maybe because that is when our hijinks in the bedroom…and the rest of the house," she added in an undertone, "Will be permitted to resume." He swallowed hard at the pronouncement.

"Six… weeks?" he stuttered.

"Possibly longer." She slanted her eyes at him, a smirk playing on her lips. "If I remember correctly, Bernice wouldn't let Jason anywhere near her after her seventh month."

"Oh, God," he groaned morosely. "It's like the first four years all over again. You holding me off, while I become intimately acquainted with cold showers once more. I don't know which thought is more horrifying: that or we have to be given _permission_ to resume our 'hijinks' to use your term." She couldn't help the snicker that crossed her lips.

"And from what Frances once told me, gun fire, the phone, demanding clients and Mildred have nothing over a newborn when it comes to interrupting… kissing." What could he say but…

"A long weekend, eh? You're on." Silence lingered for a minute, during which they shifted until they were comfortable, his hand returning to her stomach while her hand slipped back under his shirt.

"Laura?"

"Hmmm?"

"Are you up to telling me what happened after…" he swallowed hard, "… I was shot? When did Murphy arrive?" She squeezed her eyes shut hard. _It's nothing more than a case. Cool, detached, analytical. Set the emotions aside, lock them up. He needs to know, has the right to know._ "I'm sorry," he spoke again when she remained silent. "I should have—"

"No, it's fine," she interrupted. "Really. I suppose I'm just surprised. You seemed to know the details when Jarvis was questioning us."

"I was doing no more than following your lead," he admitted. "I don't recall a thing beyond attempting to stand." _You can do this, Laura_ , she reminded herself and drew in a deep breath of air, releasing it slowly.

"When you fell, I tried to get to you. I realized too late that Anna had gotten up. I had no way of getting to the gun in time. I heard a gunshot. It was Murph." She shrugged her shoulders against him. "That's pretty much it. I stayed with you while he called for the police and ambulance, then came back to help me slow down the bleeding from your wound."

"Another debt, it would seem," he mulled.

"You _know_ that's not how Murph sees it," she scolded him lightly.

"I do. But I'd still like to do something for the man. Twice now, he's placed his life on hold, put it at risk even, to help us." An idea came to mind, and the longer he considered it, the more he liked it. "How would you feel about surprising he and Sherry with a trip to London? They can stay at Hanover. If they wish to take the boys, there's more than enough room, and with the park straight across the way, it would be ideal."

"I think they'd like that," Laura answered, after giving it some thought. "Murph's always talked about seeing Europe one day. He'd finally get that stamp on his passport."

"Then we'll add a few days at Ashford for them," he decided impulsively. Leaning her head back, she pressed her lips to his neck and let them linger for a long moment.

"You're a good man, Mr. Steele," she told him quietly. The compliment made his heart pitty-patter, and he said a quiet thank you the cardiac monitor was history.

"Owed largely to your own doing, Mrs. Steele," he returned the commendation. He heard her quiet yawn, felt the rise and fall of her stomach. Sleep was threatening to steal her away, and he'd be damned if he made any mention of it, knowing she'd once more relegate herself to the couch.

"Remington?"

"Hmmmm?"

"A few years ago, when the Royal Lavulite came back into our lives… Do you recall what you said to me about dreams when we were locked in that coffin?"

* * *

 **"I have had some dreams recently . . . troubling at first, but now I realize they've helped put some things in perspective."**

 **"And?"**

 **"And, I finally understand that I've stayed around not for the promise of what our relationship might be… but for the reality of what it is."**

* * *

"I do. Why do you ask?" Her fingertip plucked at the ends of his chest hairs before settling in to stroke again.

"While you were…" she left the thought unsaid, "When I was able to sleep, I had some dreams that were… disturbing at first. But, like you, then, they brought me new understanding on a few matters," she admitted.

"Oh? How so?" he asked, his curiosity aroused.

"First, _if_ the worst had come to pass, I'd have found a way to raise our child myself, the way we would have raised him together." She paused when his fingers glided over her stomach, sending a shiver over her skin. "I wouldn't have wanted to, I'd have been devastated, but I'd have done it… and would've loved him beyond reason from the moment he was born for no other reason than he was yours. It took me a little while longer to realize you not only knew that, but it was your faith in me to do exactly that which made you willing to give your life for ours."

"If I've learned anything, at all, across my years with you, Laura," he answered quietly, "It's that when your heart is involved you can, _and will_ , move mountains to make certain those you love are not only safe, but cared for with a fierceness few will ever know. I've certainly been the benefactor of precisely that kind of care, more times than I can count… often even when undeserved." He pressed a hard kiss on the top of her head.

"Second," she continued, "I realized if I hadn't married you on that tuna boat, I would have lost you, and we'd never have found our way past ourselves to this. So, as it happens, that day wasn't the worst day of my life as I once claimed… but one of the best." The words earned her another buss atop the head along with a swift, hard hug against his side. Her hand reached up to caress his cheek and remained there.

"Does this mean you wish to honor the day from here forward, rather than ignore it as you have day's past?" he wondered aloud.

"Maybe. I haven't really thought about it," she told him honestly.

"Any other revelations found within these dreams?"

"One," she nodded. "Repeatedly, you've said over the years that kismet brought us together…"

"I have," he acknowledged, closing his eyes when her hand left his cheek to glide back under his shirt.

"I think you're right," she told him, tilting her head back to see the surprised look she knew she'd find there. She wasn't disappointed. Touching her lips to his chin, she tipped her head back down. "The man who'd spent a childhood being sent away, the woman left twice and unwilling to risk it happening again. For four years, you fought _me_ in order to have me and for four years, no matter my fears, I wasn't willing to lose _you_. Life taught us both to never count on another person yet neither of us could let go of the other." Shifting she pressed up on and elbow so she leaned partly over his, and threaded her fingers through his hair. She'd vowed to herself if he made it through, he'd know what he meant to her, and despite the butterflies flitting through her stomach, she was determined to do just that. "You're it, Remington. My heart, the love of my life." Her fingers settled to stroke beyond his ear.

He was held speechless, at first. For a woman who'd spent years attributing more weight to words than deeds, she was generally as reticent as he to use them, revealing too much of herself too great a risk, even in these last months. His hand slid up her back until it burrowed in her hair, his eyes fastening on hers earnestly.

"As you are mine," he finally managed, voice gruff with the emotions she'd wrought in him. Blinking her eyes, she stroked her hand over his cheek before cupping it in in her hand.

"You certainly proved _that,_ in a way I _never_ wanted. I _need_ you to stay with me, Mr. Steele," she implored.

"I intend to," he vowed, drawing her head down to lock his lips over hers. For long moments, he savored the mere contact, before his lips roamed over, caressed hers. Regretfully, when the kiss threatened to escalate, she pulled away and pillowed her head against his chest again. "Stay." She bit her lower lip at the one word request.

"For now," she acquiesced, having every intention of using the couch across the room as soon as he fell asleep.

Remington, however, had his own plan in mind, tracing whisper soft patterns with his fingertips across her back. When the arm laying on his chest grew heavy upon it, he was unable to resist the impulse to try to gain her acquiescence while she was dazed by the haze of pending sleep.

"Laura? About the horse-" he began, his voice just above whisper.

"Not happening…" she mumbled almost incoherently.

 _Well_ , he reasoned, _there's always tomorrow for that_. His hand resumed its gentle caress of her back. For now, what mattered most to him was his wife sleeping the night through in his arms where he needed her and where she belonged. Only when he heard the soft sigh which meant she'd surrendered to sleep did he cease battling against his own fatigue, and allowed himself to drift off, so he might join his wife in her dreams.


	28. Chapter 28: A Slip

Chapter 28: A Slip

Any hopes for a calm and relaxing day on Sunday, took flight early in the day.

Abigail, with Donald in tow, stopped in to visit shortly before nine-thirty. Now that Remington was firmly on the mend and she needn't be prepared to assume the role of mother of the grieving widow, there was a Junior League meeting on Monday that she decreed she simply could not miss. Yet, before leaving she could not help imparting her opinion on the young couple… she was Abigail, after all.

"Remington, I think it's time you and Laura consider a new line of work," she advised, as Laura scowled at the back of her head. "Now I know the two of you enjoy all the intrigue and excitement of being detectives, but there comes a time when you have to say enough is enough. The work's far too dangerous and the two of you aren't getting any younger, you know." At this Remington's brow quirked upward, while Laura lifted her eyes ceilingward praying for some divine intervention. "It's time for the two of you to start thinking of a respectable profession…" her eyes slanted towards Laura "… and of starting a family. Why, by the time Frances was Laura's age Laurie Beth was already here. It's one thing for a man to have children later in life, but it'll only be all the more difficult on Laura the older she gets and, certainly, she'll want to stay home once babies start arriving. Maybe you should start a nice little gallery. Daniel said you've always enjoyed art. Laura has that degree in math. I'm sure she could help a few hours a week, taking care of the books and such. Or investments. Donald's done very well—" Laura had finally had enough.

"Mother, we're not closing the Agency. Not now, not ever," she told her firmly.

"You say that now, but once the children start arriving—"

"Maybe Remington and I don't plan to have children," Laura retorted peevishly, crossing her arms and tilting her chin up, "Have you considered that? This is the eighties. Many couples these days prefer to remain childless so they can travel freely, work—" Remington's lips twitched with amusement, given Laura was already pregnant with their child.

"Now, darling, there's no need to be like that," she scolded then turned to Remington. "Don't mind Laura," she told him as though Laura could not hear. His eyes flicked to his wife and watched as her lips thinned, her temper building. Picking up his hand, Abigail patted it. "She's never been interested in the traditional values of home and family, but I'm sure you'll be able to change her mind. After all, you did manage to get her to settle down which I feared no one would manage to do since she ran off that lovely Jeffrey's boy. I'm sure she'll be a perfectly adequate mother, and as wonderful as you are with children, I'm sure you'll be able to make up for her shortcom—"

"Abigail," he interrupted at the last, his own temper pricked, wondering how the woman knew nothing about her daughter, at all. "Forgive me for saying so, but 'that lovely Jeffrey's boy' of whom you speak so fondly? He's not only a twit, but a man whom committed numerous wrongs against your daughter. Wrongs, I might add, that I spent the better part of four years paying for. Further, as far as Laura and I having a child—"

"Remington," Laura sighed. There was little point in dressing down her mother, as Laura knew from experience the woman was immune to it.

"She and I discussed the matter at length, months ago. She'll not make an adequate mother—"

"Remington," Laura said again, voice rising, as alarm began to set in, realizing too late her mother had genuinely affronted him.

"But an extraordinary one," he continued, oblivious to Laura calling his name. "Which is precisely why she is, at this very moment—"

"Mr. Steele!" Laura shouted. Short of throwing herself across the bed at him and slapping her hand over his mouth, she only stand by and watch as…

"Pregnant with our child. As for our business, we _both—"_

"Oh, God," Laura mumbled in horror, as she staggered to the chair next to his bed and sat down hard in it.

"Take a great deal of pride in helping people and immensely—" he continued.

"Laura's pregnant!" Abigail squeaked, turning to look at that very daughter who was by now burying her face in her hands.

"Oh, my God," Donald weighed in from across the room.

"…enjoy what we do. At no point do we plan to shut down the Agency—" He stopped his rant mid-sentence when Abigail leaned down and placed a joyous kiss on his cheek.

"I don't know how you did it, Remington!" she effused as Remington looked at her with confusion.

"Did what?" He asked, confused by both the woman's kiss and her enthusiasm given he was in the midst of calling her upon the carpet. He looked to Donald who stood grinning like a fool across the room then to his wife, who spread the fingers covering her face, only to close them again.

"Oh, God," she bemoaned again.

"Now, Laura, maybe I should just cancel my flight—"

"No," Laura all but shouted in her horror, as she launched herself to her feet. Taking a quick breath, she continued much more calmly. "Really, Mother, that's not necessary. Remington should be coming home in just a few days—"

"Exactly my point," Abigail proclaimed. "In your condition—" Remington sat up straighter at those words and rewound his lecture in his head.

"Oh, God," he fairly moaned, swiping at his face, as he realized what he'd done.

"You can't be expected to take care of Remington while he's recovering. I'll just cancel my flight home and stay a month or—"

"Mother, we'll be fine," Laura insisted, her voice going up an octave, as her husband now appeared close to panic. "Remington and I really need time to ourselves right now, and if we need any help, the Androkus's are here, Thomas and Catherine—"

"And Frannie and I will be more than happy to lend a hand," Donald interjected. Laura turned her head and looked at him gratefully.

"See, Mother, we'll be fine," Laura told her, trying to sound reassuring.

"Well if you're sure. I really need to be at my meeting tomorrow. We're planning the Spring charity auction…"

"I'm sure. We'll be fine." She fought back the urge to sigh with relief. Abigail clasped Laura's face between her hands.

"Now, I don't want you to worry. In time, you'll be happy about this, dear." Laura's brow furrowed.

"I _am_ happy, Mother." Abigail patted her on the cheek then with a quick hug, released her.

"Of course, you are. Just don't blame poor Remington while you sort your feelings out. Remember," Abigail gave her youngest a long look, "It took both of you, not just him, to make this happen." Laura threw her hands upwards and looked to the ceiling in frustration when her mother turned back to her husband.

"Remington, dear, we're all so very happy you made it through." Bussing him on the cheek, she turned to Donald. "If we don't hurry, I'll be late for my flight, Donald." Donald rolled his eyes at the implication it was he making them late, and stepped to Laura to press a kiss on her cheeks and give her a hug.

"I'm so happy for you, Laura," he told her sincerely. Leaning back she smiled at him.

"Thank you. Donald, would you mind bringing Frances back here around…" she glanced at her watch and did some quick calculations, "…one? I want her to hear the news from me."

"Absolutely. We'll be here with bells on. She'll be thrilled."

With those words, he and Abigail departed. Remington warily watched Laura's back. The longer she remained still, quiet, the more nervous he became. _You've really stepped into it this time, old sport_. Lifting hand, he worried his thumb nail with his teeth, having no choice but to wait her out and hope he could soothe things over once she blew. Finally, as minutes ticked by, he couldn't stand it any longer.

"Laura, I'm sor—" She held up a hand and turned to face him.

"It's fine," she sighed. _He stared at her as though she'd grown a second and third head._ _Is this my wife? Laura Holt Steele? It's fine?_ Her response left him thoroughly baffled.

"You're not upset?" He said the words before he could stop them. _Jolly good move, old sport. Encourage her to get angry, then._

"I'm not thrilled. But even more so, I'm determined that Kerr's going to release me from his care today. Getting angry runs contrary to that goal," she answered logically. "Now, we just deal with it. What time are you expecting Thomas today?"

"If he keeps to the schedule of the past few mornings, I imagine within the hour."

"Alright. Elena said the family will be here at noon with our lunch, so we'll tell them then. I'll call Mildred and have her stop by at…" she frowned, then nodded, "…two. Call Monroe, ask him and Jocelyn to stop by for a visit at three, I'll do the same with Murphy and Bernice."

"Laura, are you sure?" he asked, still gnawing at the thumb.

"Remington, we might not be able to control when it gets out, now, but we can certainly control how. We have any number of family and friends who will be hurt if they find out through the grapevine instead of from us." She rolled her head, trying to release the tension in her neck. "I'm going downstairs to see Kerr. If Thomas gets here before I return, wait until I get back." Walking to the side of the bed, she brushed away his hand and tapped her lips to his. "I'll be back shortly."

With those words she departed, leaving Remington staring at the door when it closed in her wake.

* * *

"He cried, Laura," Remington contemplated, as he and Laura lay in his bed that evening. "My father actually cried."

And he had. It had been an emotional day, all around.

When Laura had arrived back on Remington's floor, she'd found him walking the hallways, leaning a bit heavily on the PCA stand for support. Even her concern that he was pushing himself too hard, too fast, could not suppress the smile on her face. Taking his arm, she wordlessly guided him back in the direction of his room.

"Good news, I take it?" he asked, noting the dimple flashing in her cheek.

"Very. No more visits."

"Ah, two Steele's given a clean bill of health, may the third soon follow," he said heartily.

"Right now, I'd be happy just to get you home. So, let's not overdo it, Mr. Steele," she admonished lightly, unable to help herself.

"Mmmm, might have done just that this go round," he admitted, even as his legs wobbled a bit. Quickly hooking his arm around her shoulders, her eyes narrowed with worry.

"Maybe we should find you a wheelchair. What do you think?" she suggested. He cast an appalled look in her direction.

"It's bad enough I'm tottering about in my pajamas and robe, Laura, where anyone might see me, despoiling the image we've carefully cultivated over the years, but to be seen as unable—" She let out a long suffering sigh, ending his diatribe.

"Alright, but when all three Steele's are lying on the floor because you can't stay on your feet," she warned, even as he wobbled more substantially this time, "It'll be even more embarrassing to the very image you're harping about."

"Might I be of assistance?" Thomas asked from behind the couple. As he'd arrived to visit his son, he'd witnessed Remington's unsteadiness and his petite wife's attempts to keep him erect. Normally, an implication she was unable to handle a task would have her hackles rising but in this particular case, Thomas most certainly had a size advantage.

"By all means," she agreed, ducking out from under Remington's arm, as Thomas took the place in her stead. "And maybe you can talk some sense into your hardheaded son."

"Not hardheaded, Lau-ra," he drew out her name. "Determined."

"Determined to fall on your—" She didn't finish the sentence when Remington tsked at her.

"The image, Mrs. Steele, the image," he censured, as she pushed open the door to his room. She threw up her hands.

"Why? Why do I put up with you?" she grumbled.

"You know the answer to that question," he smirked, as he lowered himself with some effort to sit on the couch. She couldn't help her snort of laughter or the smile that appeared on her face.

"Keep it up, buster, and I may regain my sanity," she retorted, as she sat down next to him, reaching for his hand and tangling their fingers. The thought that only a few days before she didn't know if they'd ever be able to engage in such quips again, left her blinking her eyes for a moment and rubbing the back of his finger… where his ring _should_ be. He squeezed her hand acknowledging he'd noticed the reaction and signifying they'd take care of that matter later when they were alone. With an answering squeeze of her hand, she turned her attention to the man seated across from them.

"Thomas, your son has some news for you," she told him, opening the door for her husband. Remington wiped his free hand at his face.

"Forgive me, I don't think I've ever been quite this nervous," Remington apologized. Thomas noticeably tensed at his words.

"Has… Has something gone wrong in your recovery?"

"No, no, not at all. A bit of good news, actually," Remington assured the man. Taking a deep breath, he decided on a whim that if he were going to make this type of announcement, he may as well bite the bullet on another matter. "It seems you'll be a grandfather come October, Father." Laura's head jerked towards him, that dimple appearing again as she squeezed his hand in approval. They then both watched as Thomas first held a hand to his mouth, then reached for his handkerchief and wiped at the moisture which fell from his eyes.

"Pardon me. I'm sorry," Thomas apologized. "It's just I thought I'd never…" With a sharp nod of his head, he fought to regain his composure, then pushed to his feet. Taking Laura by the hand, he pulled her to her feet and wrapped her in an embrace before bussing her on the cheek. "Congratulations." Releasing her, he leaned down and gave Remington a hug, made awkward by their positions. "Truly wonderful news."

* * *

Now, as he and Laura lay in bed together, Remington continued to ruminate on the moment.

"It's been an emotional week for him… month, actually," Laura reminded him. "First, he's finally able to claim you as his own, at the risk of losing you all together because of the deceptions. Then… Anna. Now, not only finding out he's about to be a grandfather, but to hear his son call him 'father' for the first time? He loves you, Mr. Steele." She tilted her head back to look at him, while tracing his jaw with two fingers. "I imagine you'll feel much the same the first time our child calls you 'Da.'"

"Laura, you act as though I'm a sentimental fool," he admonished lightly. Pressing up on her elbow, she leaned down and caressed his lips with hers. When she ended the kiss, her eyes met his.

"You? Never." Moving his right arm tentatively, he hooked his finger through the chain at her neck, so her locket and his ring rested against his hand.

"I think it's about time we return this to where it belongs, eh?"

Sitting up, she unhooked the necklace and dropped the ring in her hand before refastening it around her neck. When the ring rested at the base of his finger again, she pressed her lips to his palm. His hand slipped away, to bury itself in her hair. _Come here,_ he mouthed silently. Smiling, she leaned down and lay her lips against his, allowing him to take lead. She tasted his contented sigh as he settled in to nibble, then brush his lips against hers, gradually increasing the pressure, deepening the kiss. He hummed, contentedly when she willing opened to him after a teasing touch of the tip of his tongue to her lips and her fingers threaded through his hair. Memories of the years when she'd rarely permit him such latitude, combined with her sweet taste and gentle touch, left him clutching her to him, taking the kiss into dangerous territory. Laying her hand against his chest, she pried her lips away, her breath coming in short gasps, eyes dazed by desire.

"Do you remember what you told me on the plane when we were flying to Greece?" she asked him breathily. He frowned, trying to recall what specifically she was referencing, then his mind clicked on it.

* * *

" _ **You're not in any condition for what you're setting in motion, love."**_

* * *

"Awww," he grunted.

"Sorry, big guy." Patting him on the chest, she lay down again, this time on her back. Lifting his hand, she traced his palm with her fingertips.

"Mmmmm," he hummed. "It's been some time since you've done that." Her brows raised in surprise and she looked at him.

"Has it?"

"It has." He shifted slightly, trying to ease the ache in his side a bit. "Frances was happy with the news, eh?" She gave a sharp bark of laughter. Frances had, in fact, been beside herself.

* * *

"Oh, my. Are you kidding me, Laura?" She'd stared at her little sister, then the tears had started. "You're going to have a baby? I just can't believe it! I'd all but given up on you ever getting married and now this! What have you done with my baby sister?"

"Frances, I don't know why you're so surprised," Laura answered, shaking her head ruefully as the two men sat by and watched. She held a hand out, palm up. "Just last year I told you I'd like to have a family of my own someday." _That_ caught Remington's attention.

* * *

" _ **Don't you think**_ _ **I'd**_ _ **like to have a family of my own someday? I'm just like any other woman out there, trying to make the pieces fit."**_

* * *

"Oh? And exactly who were you thinking of having this mythical family with, dare I ask?" Laura turned her head and looked at him as though he'd gone mad.

"You don't really think I'll give you the satisfaction of answering that question, do you?" she asked, dismissing the question.

"Honestly, I thought you were just trying to placate me," Frances answered, before turning on the waterworks again. "A baby!" She grabbed Laura and gave her a hug, nearly yanking her off the bed where she sat next to Remington. "You're going to let me host your baby shower, aren't you, Laura?"

"Baby shower?" Laura repeated, giving Remington a wide-eyed look, a silent request for help.

"Ah, yes," he cleared his throat. "There is one more thing that needs to be mentioned. Or should I say a question that needs to be asked." All eyes turned to him. "We were hoping you do us the honor of agreeing to be the guardian of our child should anything…" He let the rest of the question stand for itself, given recent events. Donald cleared his throat, while Frances began to cry in earnest.

"It would be our privilege," Donald answered for the two of them, reaching across Laura to shake Remington's hand, then kissing Laura on the cheek before taking Frances in his arms and trying to calm her.

* * *

Now, as they lay in bed, a single finger tracing the lines in his palm, the couple laughed. It had certainly been a chaotic day, but it had felt good… very good.


	29. Chapter 29: Future Expansion

Chapter 29: Future Expansion

"Between Frances and Mildred, I don't imagine we'll have much trouble finding a babysitter when we're wishing for a bit of time alone, eh?" Remington mused, pressing his cheek to the side of Laura's head in the form of a hug.

"No, I don't think we will," Laura agreed, tracing his fingers with one of hers.

"I can't quite recall a time before when I was scolded even as I was being congratulated," he commented thoughtfully, bending down to grin at her and receiving an answering smile in return.

* * *

Frances and Donald had barely departed by the time Mildred arrived, prompt as always. She bustled through the door bearing several files in her arms, assuming the requested appearance at a specific time meant her bosses had finally found solid purchase and were ready to review the Agency happenings in the several days they were unavailable. What she received for her efforts was a queer look directed at her by the Boss.

"Mildred, surely as I lay barely on this side of death's doorway, you do not expect me to do _paperwork_ today," he observed, a great deal of distaste reflected in his voice. The older woman looked to Laura, whose lips were twitching with mirth and decided there'd be no help from that direction.

"Sorry, Boss," she apologized. "I just thought when Mrs. Steele called and asked me to be here at two, that she meant—"

"Ignore him, Mildred," Laura finally stepped in. "I imagine in future days, Mr. Steele will use this little incident to try and get out of any number of things he finds unpleasant: paperwork, legwork. Actually, come to think of it, just about everything with the word _work_ attached."

" _Little incident_?!" the man beside her sputtered while Mildred guffawed.

"Speaking of workload, we're going to need more hands on deck, sooner than later," she mused. She glanced at Remington, then returned her focus to Mildred, who shifted a legal pad to the top of the files on her lap and picked up a pen. "When you get to the office tomorrow, call your and Mr. Steele's Marvin T. Slottman Jr. and let him know he's hired." She felt Remington perk up beside her at the pronouncement. "He can start immediately. For now, he'll work exclusively with you: background checks, asset traces and the like, and he'll be responsible for covering the reception area when Bernice is out of the office." She gave her husband a pointed look. "And make it clear, should Mr. Steele ask for so much as a _paperclip,_ it's to be cleared by _me_ first." This was greeted by a man crossing his arms and displaying a full-blown pout.

"Really, Mrs. Steele, I thought we were partners. Equals." She patted his leg placatingly.

"We are. Think of it as a little payback for the days after Mildred first joined our midst," she answered smugly, earning another snicker from Mildred.

* * *

" _ **If I want a file, she asks you**_ _ **first**_ _ **. If I want a paperclip, she asks you**_ _ **first**_ _ **."**_

* * *

"Awwww," he griped, half-heartedly, even as he smiled at the memory.

"Will do, Mrs. Steele," Mildred confirmed.

"Alright, Mildred, you have your trainee." She gave her full attention to Remington. "Graham and Burton?" she asked.

"I was impressed by both," he nodded. "But, unless I'm mistaken, weren't you hoping for a woman in one of those spots? Giving a hand up, so to speak?"

"Hoping, yes. But I eliminated one during the first round of interviews while you were in London, and the one that remains? I'd rank her fourth in the list of candidates who made it through to the second round of interviews." She pondered further. "If I were to give her the position over Burton, who has impressed both of us, would I be any better than those willing to give a man a job over a more qualified woman, on the basis of his gender, alone? I'm sure in the future, when we hire again, we'll come across the _right_ female apprentice."

"Then, by all means," he waved his arm.

"Mildred, also call Brandon Graham and Zack Burton. Tell them we'd like for them to join the Agency, but it will be a month before training can begin due to… what happened." She looked at Remington again. "Who do you want working with you on the security side, initially?" He rubbed at his chin.

"Graham, I think. He's worked some on the installations with Monroe, so will have at least a rudimentary idea of that side of the business." She gave him a sharp nod of the head.

"Let Graham know he'll spend the initial part of his training period working with Mr. Steele. In the meantime, have him come by the hospital tomorrow afternoon at two. Call Monroe and have him join us as well. He can work with Monroe, learning some more of the basics until Mr. Steele returns to work."

"And Burton?" Mildred asked. Laura made an executive decision on that one.

"Have him go by the office, complete all the paperwork – it's on my desk where I left it last Monday. I want to wrap him up. I think he's going to be too good to risk losing. So, he'll be 'on call' so to speak, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Get him a pager so we can contact him. He may work very little the first month, but will receive his full salary." She paused, then added. "Have him here tomorrow at three."

"You got it," Mildred confirmed, setting the pen down when she finished scribbling.

"Now, there's one more thing," Laura added, reaching for Remington's hand and giving it a squeeze, indicating it was time. Mildred, oblivious to the news which was about to be imparted, picked up her pen again.

"Shoot," she answered.

"It appears we'll be expanding by one more come October," Remington hinted.

"And they may well be _far_ more demanding… _needy_ … than Mr. Steele on his worst of days," Laura added, suppressing a smile when Mildred's eyes narrowed on the couple.

"True, true," Remington agreed. "Won't get a bit of work done, we can be certain of that."

"Not to mention the messes I'm sure they'll create, but at least they'll be confined to their own space," Laura countered.

"Mrs. Steele, are you trying to say you've created another, lesser version of the Boss?" Mildred demanded to know. Remington flashed Mildred a smug grin while Laura tapped a finger to her lips.

"I _suppose_ ," she drew out the word, "You could say that I have, although Mr. Steele was integral to the process."

"Now why would you go and do that?" Mildred protested, then her eyes widened and she looked back and forth at the couple searching their faces. "Are you saying…" she stumbled, "Do you mean…" Her eyes locked on their joined hands, then flew to their faces. "Are you going to have a baby?" she finally blurted out.

"We are," Remington confirmed. Mildred clapped her hands against her face, as her jaw dropped open, then jumped out of her seat, grabbing Laura in a hug.

"Oh, honey, I'm so happy for you!" she proclaimed then rounded the bed to take Remington's face in her hands. "And you? Awwwww, Boss…" She touched her lips to his forehead. He felt heat suffuse his face at the unexpected affection.

"Thank you, Mildred," the couple said in unison, then grimaced that they had.

"I have to admit, I was wondering if the two you would _ever_ figure out how to make this work. All the games, the avoidances, the pretenses…" She shook her head at the pair, as she moved towards the end of the bed. " _I've_ known from almost the start," she hitched a thumb at herself, "That the two of you don't make sense without each other." She placed her hands against her cheeks again, unable to help the smile. "A baby!" she repeated, then scowled and wagged her finger at them. "Well, it can't happen anymore, do you hear me? If you two start playing those same old games again, you'll have me to answer to. Got it?"

"Yes, Mildred," they answered, in unison again, a baffled look on Remington's face and Laura left blinking in surprise at the lecture. Having reached Laura's side of the bed again, she reached for each of their hands giving them a squeeze.

"You've done good, kids. Real good," she praised. Releasing their hands, she swaggered away. "Oh, I can't wait. Let me tell you, this baby's gonna be spoiled rotten by his or her Auntie Mildred!"

* * *

Laura turned her head to look at Remington, now, her fingers toying with his ring.

"You might be right about having to find a larger house. I suspect Mildred and Frances are going to compete on who can possibly spoil Baby Steele the most," she observed.

"Ah, but you forget Elena and Melina," he reminded her. "I wouldn't be surprised if Elena, at this very moment, has knitting needles and yarn in hand given she no longer needs to keep our secret."

"I think you shocked the hell out of Christos," she laughed.

"I did," he agreed, smiling widely. "And I must admit, I enjoyed it."

* * *

The Androkus family had arrived en masse not long before noon. Thomas and Marcos exchanged handshakes, then crossed the room to the small seating area to converse, while Elena hovered over her son and daughter-in-law, making certain both ate the meals she'd brought for them. Melina perched on a corner at the end of the bed, so that she could talk with her favorite brother.

"Papa insists Zeth and I return home with him tomorrow," she pouted prettily. "I told him I can take time off more easily than Christos can, but you know Papa. He won't listen to me. Maybe he will if you ask, Xen?" she asked hopefully.

"Melina, enough harping on this matter,' Elena scolded her youngest. "Your father has spoken and given his reasons. Nothing will change."

"Because Christos is a man," she sulked. Elena lifted her eyes heavenward.

"Because he can assist Xenos when he returns home in ways you cannot," the older woman corrected.

"You could go home, and I could stay," Melina persisted. "I cook nearly as well as yourself."

"Melina, enough!" Marcos barked from across the room. "Act as the young woman you are instead of the petulant child you choose to imitate instead." Anger flashed through the young woman's eyes, but she wisely held her tongue.

"Yes, Papa." She caught the smile twitching at Remington's mouth. "What?"

"At times, Lina, I forget you can be as hard-headed as my bride," Remington answered, receiving a look of censure from the very bride of which he spoke. "I suppose in some ways you'll always be the little girl in pigtails following me about everywhere I go."

"I grew up a long time ago, Xen," she retorted, then sighed. "I just wish everyone would realize."

"If that is what you wish, you'd be wise to listen to Papa's advice," Zeth interceded. She resisted the urge to stick her tongue out at her oldest brother, instead settling a disapproving frown upon him, which he merely laughed off.

"Helena's not going to be upset you're staying longer?" Laura directed the question at Christos.

"I stay with her full blessing. The needs of our family are always paramount," he explained. "Melina will assist Helena with the children when she gets home. My presence is required here more so than at home, at least for now."

Remington looked at Laura. At her nod, he sat down his fork and took her hand in his.

"Before you depart, Marcos, Zeth…" he caught the attention of each man, before leveling a look upon Melina and softening his voice, "Lina. Laura and I've some news." To their credit, neither Elena nor Thomas gave any indication of the news about to be imparted. Taking a deep breath, a cheeky smile lifting his lips, Remington announced, "We're expecting."

Melina squealed, and without thinking, threw herself in the direction of her adored older brother, only to find Zeth's quick reflexes resulted in his arm around her waist, and she lifted from the bed.

"Melina, need I remind you why we're here?" he chastised, as he sat her on her feet. For a moment, she looked appropriately apologetic, then squealed again, moving to Remington and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"Congratulations, brother," Zeth said, holding out a hand. The two men shook hands. "Although, I seem to recall a conversation in which you stated children were not on the horizon."

"I never said any such thing," Remington denied, feeling Laura's amused smile on him, thinking she'd caught him at something. " _I simply said_ Laura and I neither had plans to compete with yourself or Christos where children were concerned nor plans to start a family at the time."

"Yet, Laura is with child before your first anniversary," Christos called from across the room, winking at Zeth. "You may compete with us, after all, big brother."

"If he does, it will be with his second wife," Laura firmly corrected, drawing deep laughter from Zeth and Christos. "One… two, at the outside," she made a cutting motion in front of herself with a hand, "Once we see how we do with the first." She settled her eyes on Christos, leveling him with an intense look long enough that he shifted uncomfortably on his feet. Satisfied, she added, "Don't make me regret the next, Christos," she warned, then looked at Remington.

"Laura and I discussed it," he announced, "And we'd like you and Helena to be the baby's godparents." Zeth hooted with laughter.

"Christos? I think the bullet affected your head, brother," he joked.

"Are you serious?" Christos managed to mutter.

"Quite," Remington confirmed, simply, then seeing the doubtful look which continued to linger on the other man's face, expounded. "When we were children, tussle as we might between ourselves, there's no one I trusted more to watch my back. Would you do any less for my child? Would Helena?"

"Of course not," Christos frowned. "Should you even have to ask?" Remington raised a brow at him.

"Should you?" The question was all it had taken to settle the matter, Christos crossing the room and clasping Remington's hand in his.

"Speaking for Helena and myself, we'd be honored."

* * *

Releasing Remington's hand, Laura shifted to her side, nuzzling her head against his chest, just below the shoulder. Wrapping his arm around her, he slipped his hand beneath her shirt to stroke the bare skin of her abdomen, until she squirmed beneath the caress and he stilled his hand.

"All-in-all, a good day, wouldn't you say?" he asked. She hummed her agreement in part answer.

"A very good day." His sensitive fingers dared to journey over her stomach again.

"Laura?"

"Yes?" Her fingers loosened a few buttons on his pajama shirt so her hand could dart inside.

"How do you feel? Have you noticed any changes?" She pursed her lips and gave the question some thought as her fingers traced patterns against his chest.

"No nausea today, so that was a nice change of pace. My breasts are still tender, so no change there." His fingers swept over her abdomen again.

"Am I imagining, then, that you seem a bit… er… thicker about the middle?" Her fingers stilled, and after a long second, a corner of her mouth lifted upwards.

"I hadn't really noticed. But now that you mention it, my skirt did feel a bit snug at the waist today." She tilted her head back to look at him. "You can tell?"

"Ah, Laura, you speak as though I haven't devoted myself to memorizing every inch of your delectable little body," he scolded playfully. "You seem just ever so slightly… fuller," His fingers swept across her middle again. "Here." She brushed his hand aside, and replaced it with her own, but he was undeterred, laying his hand atop her own.

"I think you're right," she agreed, her smile widening before her lips pursed in amusement. "Better enjoy these days while you can, Mr. Steele, because it doesn't appear I'll look like this much longer." He reared back his head, for a better view of her face.

"Do you think I'll find you any less attractive than I do now?" he asked, bothered by the notion for some reason.

" _I suspect_ …" she drew out the words, while gracing him with an impish grin, "I'll have more trouble keeping your hands off me than I already do." He laughed loudly at that.

"You act as though I'm the lone instigator." He flicked his hands towards his chest. "Case in point. Here I lie recovering, and my wife persists in partially disrobing me each evening."

"Well, I do have _four years_ to make up for, Mr. Steele," she drawled. "I'm sure I could find the restraint I used all those years and reemploy it once—"

"The mere thought is so disturbing it may well set my recovery back weeks, Mrs. Steele," He interrupted laughingly, then sobered, voice quieting. "It means a great deal to me that you wish to keep me as close as I wish to keep you." Her hand left her stomach, and slipped beneath his shirt as her lips pressed against the side of his neck.

"I do… like to keep you close." He closed his eyes, savoring both the feel of her lips against his skin and the admission. Contemplative yet contented silence stretched between them for several minutes as they simply enjoyed each other's physical presence.

"I have to wonder, Laura, if I'll ever ceased being astounded by how much things have changed… for me… us," he pondered.

"What do you mean?"

"I was just remembering what I said to you in Acapulco…"

* * *

 _ **"I mean, I've never spent this much time in one place in my entire life! And it's not only because I enjoy playing detective. I mean, sometime… sometimes I look at myself and I say, 'What's happened to you, old sport? I mean, you've become positively domesticated.'"**_

* * *

"I probably shouldn't admit this to you, even now…" he bussed her on the top of the head, to dull words which might wound, "I must have packed my bags a half dozen times the first several weeks I was in LA, determined to leave, to keep my vow to never remain anywhere too long… to never risk getting too close." He shook his head. "But, I couldn't do it. I'd remember the look on your face when I got into the cab to leave LA or after our kiss on the dock, watching you sleep in the car when we were helping the little nebbish Albee. Then, of course, by the time that cretin Phillips happened along… the idea if I left someone else would have you? I couldn't live with _that_. An impossible situation, just as you were the impossible challenge," he laughed dryly. "If I believed then that staying in one place for longer than a few months, waiting out a single woman was domesticated, what am I now? A name, profession, wife, home, and a child on the way?"

"Regrets?"

"Not a one," he answered firmly. "You?"

"Not at all," she answered swiftly. "While you were unconscious, I realized something else…" she hinted, while walking her fingers across his chest.

"Oh, and what might that be?"

"If we hadn't met, I think I would have stayed true to my committed course. The Agency, never risking getting in too deep again. Twenty years from now, the Agency would be profitable, although not as enjoyable as it's been since you appeared in my life. I'd be in a pseudo-committed relationship which would allow me to… scratch my itch… when wanted. I've never been capable of a one night stand, it's not who I am, so such an arrangement wouldn't risk personal involvement, yet in most ways I'd remain to who I am." She shrugged. "I'd never have married or had children. I would have been satisfied, at least enough, but my life would be no means be as rich as it is now."

"No staid, reliable husband with the good old Protestant work ethic?" he challenged. She shook her head against his chest.

"At one time it may have held a certain appeal… on paper, at least. But when that opportunity presented itself before, I walked away from it. It would never have been enough to take the chance I might find myself left again," she admitted.

"I see. So you'd only succumb to a man with classically good looks, who possessed not only a keen intelligence, the ability to match wits with you, a certain –"

"Smarmy aura of mystery," she cut him off. "Just as my being 'the impossible challenge' kept your interest, the mystery surrounding you _kept mine_."

"That's it? I'm injured, Mrs. Steele," he feigned offense.

"I'm sure you are," she retorted drolly. "This? Us? By our natures and experiences alone, it should never have happened…"

"Yet, here we are," he finished, hugging her to him.

"Yet, here we are," she confirmed on a yawn.

"You'll stay?" he asked, as he had the night before.

"For now." He turned his focus to lulling her to sleep, but like the night before as only gossamer threads of consciousness kept her tied to the here-and-now, he couldn't help but try again.

"Laura?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"About the horse—" he asked, hopefully.

"Still not happening, Remington." He frowned at the immediate response.

"Awww," he groused. "But just imagine how convenient—"

" _Goodnight_ , Mr. Steele," she bade firmly. With a huff and a smile, he settled in beneath her.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Steele."


	30. Chapter 30: Inheritance and Investment

Chapter 30: Inheritance & Investment

The next four days passed by in the blink of an eye, or so it seemed. On Monday, Remington was not only removed from the PCA, but to his relief was finally given clearance to begin showering again and, as such, for the first time in days he felt a bit more like his old self. To his eminent delight, a bit of sweet talk had gone a long way, and he'd been permitted to put on 'street clothes' for the duration of Laura and his welcome interviews with the new investigators-in-training. Given the area of the incision, he wasn't quite able to pull off suit and tie, but a pair of loose black pants which didn't press upon the incision, topped by an oversized button down, and he presented a picture of casual professionalism. Laura, in a show of parity, had dressed to complement his attire: black dress pants and a simple white blouse.

Zack Burton had been the first to arrive, five minutes before his appointed time. Dressed in a navy suit of impeccable tailoring, white dress shirt and maroon tie, he still couldn't shake the appearance of a surfer boy playing dress up, given his deep tan, sun bleached hair worn on the long side and loose-hipped stride. But, playing in his favor were the hazel eyes which showed a keen intelligence and his habit of taking in all around him so casually most would be unaware he was doing so. His resume had shown a heavy involvement in a wide variety of athletic endeavors: surfing, sailing, water skiing, soccer, baseball and volleyball. This, too, weighed heavily in his favor, as he was in excellent physical condition and would be able to pursue a suspect easily.

The meeting this morning was as much about getting to know the young man, as it was welcoming him aboard. The more they knew of Burton, understood about him, the easier it would be to mentally devise a plan on how he'd best be used in the Agency. Laura's imperceptible look at her partner and husband indicated he should take the lead initially.

"So, young Burton, tell us all about yourself," Remington requested. Zack leaned forward and rested his weight on elbows planted atop his knees.

"What would you like to know?" he asked, holding both hands up, in an expression that said his life was an open book as far as he was concerned.

"Let's start with the basics," Laura stepped in to suggest. "Where did you grow up? Do you have any siblings? If you do, what is your relationship like with them? Where did you go to school? You can start from there." Zack nodded.

"I grew up in the LA area and—"

"An excellent answer if working undercover," Remington praised, "The response vague yet at the same time most won't pursue the details."

"But, you aren't working undercover right now," Laura added. "There may be times that we depend on you to watch one of our backs, to keep us from harm. It requires a great deal of trust, putting your welfare in another's hands. Vague responses don't instill trust, but demand caution."

"I understand."

"Then let's start again," Remington suggested.

"I grew up in a five bedroom, five bath house on Latigo Shores Drive in Malibu," Zack began again. "I have—"

"I'm familiar with the area. Grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth then, eh?" Remington interrupted again, intentionally testing the man's temperament. A flash of anger passed through the young man's eyes, noticed by both detectives, although his face remained placid. Laura and Remington exchanged a glance.

"Some might believe that, although they'd be wrong," he answered succinctly.

"Oh, and how is that?" Remington pressed.

"My grandfather built the house in the early '30's. My father inherited the house when both his parents were killed in a car accident while my mother was pregnant with me. My parents took out a small mortgage on the house, put the money in savings _just_ to pay property taxes for the first five years. For twenty years, my father commuted to Palo Alto where he worked Monday through Thursday at PARC, sharing a cheap 2 bedroom with whoever needed a room to rent, coming home only on the weekends. My mother works as a psychologist, has my entire life. Did my brother, sisters and I grow up in a house on the beach, go to private school, get a car when we were sixteen? Yeah. But we had to earn everything we got, just like my parents."

"And how did you do that?" Laura asked.

"When we were young, chores. Our parents worked all the time, so we were expected to pitch in around the house: Laundry, dusting, cooking, vacuuming, mopping, you name it. When we were older, we were still expected to maintain our responsibilities around the house, but if we wanted to drive our cars, we were responsible for our insurance. So, we all had jobs. When it came time for college, our parents didn't just write out a check. They made it clear we should commit ourselves to earning academic, athletic scholarships, we'd take out student loans and they would cover the difference. We _earned_ our way."

"Tell us about your family," Laura prompted.

"My folks. Two sisters, twins, three years older, Anna and Emma. One brother, Jack, a year younger. We're tight. We still meet up each Sunday after Mass, barbeque on the deck, play some volleyball."

"Mass. Catholic, then, eh?" This from Remington, and again the irritation in the younger man's eyes.

"I know it's not the rage in California," he answered, "But yes we are. Is that an issue?" This led to another glance shared between Laura and Remington.

"I should hope not, since my cousin's a priest, who happens to enjoy heaping penance upon Mrs. Steele and myself whenever he's given the opportunity."

"Alright, that's enough for now," Laura intervened. She leaned forward, towards Zack. "There's a reason we asked you these questions. We wanted to see how you handled yourself when things turned personal."

"You've an excellent poker face, Burton, but twice Mrs. Steele and I were easily able to read anger in your eyes," Remington continued.

"That's dangerous in our line of work. People are going to ask you question you don't care for, or even in a manner you dislike, and you can't let them know it bothers you," Laura advised.

"I understand. I'll work on it," he assured them.

"That's all we can ask," she told him. "Now, I'm sure you've heard about Mr. Steele's recent injury, which is why we're meeting here."

"I had," he confirmed, then turned to look at Remington. "I'm glad you made it through, sir."

"Rather pleased myself," Remington dismissed.

"I don't anticipate returning to the office full time for a few weeks, although I may handle the legwork on smaller cases, as needed," Laura continued. "Since you'll be training with me, initially, this means you won't be working much either during that time. Did Mildred give you a pager when you stopped by the office this morning?"

"Yes, ma'am," he confirmed.

"You'll be on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week," she informed him. "You may only work an hour, you make work fifty. Either way, you'll receive your full salary. Once I'm back, expect to work long hours, as long as I'm able. We have six months to teach you what it takes many fledgling investigators years to learn and given Mr. Steele and I will be out of country for ten days in June, it just makes that timeline all the shorter."

"I look forward to it ma'am."

Remington and Laura spent the remainder of the hour with Zack getting to know him better, asking more specific questions about family, school, who he was seeing, life at UCLA and, of course, that led to a discussion of the rivalry between UCLA and Laura's alma mater, Stanford, at which point she'd teasingly informed him he'd nearly been turned down merely for his soon-to-be alum status.

At three o'clock, right on schedule, arrived Brandon Graham in the company of Monroe. He was placed through the same drill as his likely one day partner, Burton.

"I grew up one of six in a three bedroom apartment in the projects of Compton. My dad split shortly after I was born –"

"Was he the father of all six of you?" Laura asked.

"No, Ma'am. Keisha, Deondre and myself belong to my father, Keyonna and Malcolm to my Mama's second husband, and the baby, Kaya, Mama's third husband. Keyonna and Malcolm's dad is in prison, Kaya's daddy died four years back."

"Are you and your siblings close?" she asked.

"Mostly. None of us have much of anything to do with Deondre any more. He took it hard when our father left, ended up running with the gangs, dealing. Keisha is married with a kid, has her own beauty salon downtown. Keyonna is in her senior year at Cal. Mama, Malcolm and I all pitch in for her tuition, room and board, so she can focus on her studies. Malcolm and I live at home, help Mama with the bills and Kaya."

"You said Kaya was the baby?" she asked, slanting her eyes towards Remington and wondering why he wasn't chiming in.

"Yes, ma'am. She turned nine last month." That earned an exchange of glances between Laura and Remington. "I make sure Kaya gets to school each day. Malcolm goes to El Camino during the day and works for Monroe on the weekends, so he's able to be home when Kaya gets out of school. Our Mama's aunt moved in with us a while ago, so Mama is taken care of when we're gone."

"Is she ill?" Laura asked with a frown of concern. Brandon shifted uncomfortably.

"She has AIDs, ma'am. Kaya's daddy was a heroin addict. Cleaned himself up, got his life straight years ago. But it was too late." He explained, then added as almost an afterthought, "Dirty needles." Remington saw her hard blink at this latest piece of information. He already knew Brandon's story, had heard it long ago from Monroe. Most of the kids and young men that worked in the stores had similar stories.

"Does Kaya…?" she left the rest of the question unstated.

"No, ma'am. She's been tested and is fine."

"Well, thank God for that," she uttered, her relief very real. Then another thought occurred to her, drawing her brows together again. "What will happen to her once…?"

"I'll be raising her. That's part of the reason I wanted this job. It's a solid, clean profession, one I can be proud of. But it also means I'll one day be able to move Kaya out of the projects and into a good neighborhood."

"Mildred explained you'll be working with me on the security side of the business once I'm recovered?" Remington verified, finally jumping into the conversation.

"She did, sir," Brandon confirmed.

"Monroe, I wanted you in on this meeting as you are familiar with most aspects of the work. How many Fournier stores are left to complete?"

"Four to test, three to install," Monroe provided. Remington let his eyes rest on Laura.

"Do you think you can find time to test the four systems this week, Mrs. Steele?" Her eyes narrowed on him, and he knew he'd being hearing about it later for putting her on the spot like he just had.

"I suppose," she answered, drawing out the last word. He winced, in spite of himself.

"Monroe, would you mind allowing Brandon to shadow you, showing him in the ins and outs of reading the blueprints, determining what components are needed and why? It should provide him a solid foundation for us to build upon at my return."

"However I can be of assistance, old friend," Monroe agreed with a single nod of his head.

"Brandon, anything you learn through Monroe's hand or Mr. Steele's is proprietary information," Laura added. "The systems we design are utilized from Los Angeles up to San Francisco for any number of businesses, including the Agency. Anything you learn is not to be discussed outside of the office, or with anyone other than Agency employees. The one exception to that is Monroe. Understood?"

"I do, ma'am," Brandon confirmed.

"Good. Now, tell us about Malcolm and Kaya…"

* * *

"All-in-all, I think the meetings this afternoon went rather well, don't you?" Remington asked, as he and Laura sat down to eat the dinners Elena had Christos bring to them. Christos had stayed and visited for an hour or so before departing to take in some of LA's more prominent sights.

"All-in-all," she agreed. Taking a bite of her food, she looked up through her lashes at him where he reclined in the bed. "Now, would you mind telling me what in the hell you were thinking with that stunt you pulled?" she demanded to know.

"Now, Laura—" he began, only to be cut off.

"Don't 'now, Laura' me, Mr. Steele. You blindsided me… intentionally!" He counted it as a blessing that neither had her voice gone up an octave nor was she yelling. The simple fact she continued to eat counted in his favor.

"We've a contact deadline looming very near, Mrs. Steele with only eight days remaining to not only install but sign off on seven remaining stores," he reminded her.

"Do you think I've forgotten? I was going to request an extension from Fournier," she swept her fork in his direction, "Given the circumstances."

"To what end? To put us only further behind? We've another half dozen clients waiting for their security needs to be attended to, put off while we concentrated on Fournier," he argued.

"And again… _given the circumstances_ , I'm sure they'd understand," she countered.

"And I repeat, only to put us further behind," he retorted, this time pointing a fork in her direction. "As you very wisely pointed out to young Burton, we've six, seven months at the outside, to train these young men as best we can, while we conduct business and prepare for the arrival of our child none the less." Laura set down her fork and directed her focus on the wall across the room.

"You stayed with me." She'd said the words so quietly, he'd had to listen closely to hear.

"That I did," he concurred. "But once you were on the mend, I tended to Agency business, if you recall."

"I wasn't shot," she contravened, a nip of anger infusing the words.

"No, you weren't. You were kidnapped, starved, drugged, beaten, shoved down a bloody cliff, damned well nearly –" even now it was a word he couldn't mutter, "And in the end, I like yourself, was left sitting at your side unsure if you'd make it through. But you did, and when you were well on your way to healing, we resumed fully living our lives." She lifted a hand to rub between her eyes.

"You're right. I know that in my head," she admitted.

"Ah, but the heart does not follow the mind's lead. Believe me, love, I understand. It was no easier for me," he commiserated.

"I'll start tomorrow," she agreed, reluctantly. "But no more than two or three hours a day and I'll have Zack join me so he can see firsthand what he'll be learning when he teams with you."

"An excellent idea, Mrs. Steele." Taking another bite of his food, he eyed her. "I've another matter on my mind concerning the Agency if you're up to discussing it."

"Oh?" she asked, with raised brows. "What might that be?"

"An idea inspired by our two interns, actually," he introduced. "I think it's time we upgrade the limo, as well as invest in two or three sensible cars for the Agency. Unlike ourselves, we can't expect our employees to utilize their personal vehicles for company business." She gave her head a little shake.

"So," she drawled, "You're suggesting that in addition to purchasing two new, personal vehicles in preparation for Baby Steele's arrival, that we add to that already substantial expense by adding two to three more cars _plus_ a new limousine? I think you've finally lost it, Mr. Steele. Do you have any idea the kind of expenditure you're suggesting?" One side of his mouth crooked up in a smile. It tickled him that she still forgot so easily the extent of their financial portfolio.

"Just hear me out," he replied. "The limo, the company owned vehicles would provide us with a significant write off each year, paying for themselves in the long run. In the meantime, since I doubt we'll wish to be uninstalling and reinstalling Baby Steele's car seat any time a client, one of the interns travels with us, it only makes sense to establish a clear line between company and family vehicles." He waggled his brows at her, teasingly. "Plus, I might add, you once more seem to forget that we're recently added several more million to our personal worth given the entailments and inheritance that came part and parcel with our new roles of the Earl and Countess of Claridge." She squirmed at the reminder of the noble titles then her eyes flew upwards to meet his.

" _What_ inheritance?" Her voice rose an octave on the question, leading him to draw his brows together and to search his memory. The frown was replaced by another crooked smile.

"Uh…" he tugged at his ear, "Perhaps I forgot to mention it amid the news of our wee one's pending arrival and recent events."

"It would seem so," she drawled. If she'd been standing, her hands would have been plopped on her hips. Instead, she leveled him with an expectant gaze.

"Yes, well, beyond the entailments which you are aware of, I only found out the last day I was in London that my grandfather had set aside a rather… generous… inheritance for his grandson, should he ever be located." He shifted under her probing gaze.

" _How_ generous?" she prompted.

"I'm not sure I should say."

"Remington," she elongated his name, "Exactly _how generous?"_

"Maybe I should remind you first—"

"Mr. Steele!" she barked.

"Only thirty or so, after estate taxes, Mrs. Steele," he assured her, giving her a smile, hoping she'd leave it at that.

" _Thirty… what?"_ _Of course, she won't. Not my Mrs. Steele,_ he acknowledged silently. He lifted his brows in a such a manner as to say 'you know perfectly well what.' "Oh, God," she mumbled. "Pounds or US Dollars." The brows just quirked again. "This is absolutely absurd. We don't need this much money. _No one needs this much money,_ Remington. It's obscene!" That earned a chuckle from him.

"Now, Laura, let's keep this in perspective. Our portfolio doesn't even merit a sniff from Forbes 500." She glowered at him. "Really, love, you're the only person I've ever met that would be put out by such news," he teased, trying to pry a smile from her lips.

"While you're home recuperating, it's my recommendation that you spend some time thinking of three worthy charities who will receive an annual donation from the Steele family," she ordered. "A _substantial_ donation." He merely shrugged his shoulders. After all, it wasn't as if he hadn't been doing exactly that with the Mission for years now.

"About the vehicles…" She waved a hand in his direction, as she stood to pick up the dishes and heaved a heavy sigh.

"Fine. Do it. It will give you something to do while you're at home, at least." As she picked up his plate from the table in front of him, she caught his eyes with her own. " _Sensible_. That's the key word. I don't care how much money we have. Sensible."

"Honestly, have you no faith at all?" She rolled her eyes then looked heavenward, before taking their plates into the bathroom to rinse off. "Laura?" He craned his neck towards the bathroom.

"What is it now? A boat? Helicopter? Private plane?" she called back.

"Don't be ridiculous, love." He filed away the thought of a sailboat for later consideration.

"Because on the heels of dropping the surprise inheritance in my lap, not to mention the negotiations of a very large expenditure, I'm fairly certain you wouldn't be so foolish as to bring up the horse again. Almost as certain as I am that when you're released from here, you'd prefer to come home, rather than take up residence in a stall with said horse." Oh, she said it all pleasantly enough, even with a touch of amusement in her voice, but the threat was clear… Clear enough that he looked towards the bathroom, aghast, then reclined back in the bed again, pouting. "So, what's on your mind, sweetheart?" she asked, as she came out of the bathroom and placed their dishes in the bag brought by Elena.

"Just wondering if there might be a movie on this evening, is all," he prevaricated. She laughed softly, as she gave him a look which said she knew otherwise.

"I don't know, why don't we see?" Picking up the remote from the coffee table in the sitting area, she crossed the room and eased herself down on the bed next to him.

* * *

"Laura?"

"Hmmmm?" Laura hummed in answer, from where she was tucked into Remington's side in the bed, already lost in the twilight haze of sleep.

"I've been thinking…" Her eyes blinked open at both the words and his pensive tone.

"About?"

"I think it might be time to diversify our real estate holdings a bit. Per—"

"Mr. Steele," she protested, dragging his name out lengthily to convey the degree of her unhappiness with this line of reasoning.

"Just hear me out. That's all I ask. After I've finished, whatever you decide, stands," he proposed.

"Whatever I decide," she verified, warily.

"My word of honor," he vowed, holding up a hand.

"Alright. Go ahead then," she agreed, sounding no less pleased.

"I was thinking of something along the lines of a decent flat and perhaps a modest three to four bedroom home. Both within fifteen to twenty minutes of the Agency, good neighborhoods. Properties we can buy low, put some money into, then hold onto until they appreciate significantly. In the meantime, we could offer them as incentives, bonuses… call it what you will… for young apprentices who will live on fairly modest wages until they license. They live rent free, but are responsible for their own utilities. Further, it keeps whomever we hire, both now and in the future, close by so they can be at the office quickly when pressing matters arise." She'd figured out what he was about the first sentence in, and her smile only continued to grow the longer he spoke.

"Sell the loft, make it two apartments, and I'm on board."

"The loft?" He could hide his shock. "Laura, despite how many times I've complained about the stairs, the neighborhood, you designed the place by your own hand. It's your pride and -" She turned to her back and pressed her palm to forehead.

'Was, Remington, past tense. It was… difficult…" she gave her head a single, sharp nod, agreeing with herself the word fit "… to go back there after Roselli had been there, had violated what I'd once thought of as my sanctuary." She shook her head. "And now? Every time I go there I'll relive what happened. I… can't… It's time to let it go."

"Come here," he urged, tugging her back to him, and pressing a kiss against the top of her head once she settled back to rest on his shoulder again. "Are you sure?"

"I am."

"Alright. I'll call Meredith in the morning," he agreed.

"And I'll tell Zack and Brandon about the additional perk in their contracts when I check in on the Fournier stores." She patted his chest softly. "You're a good man, Remington. You're putting Brandon and his family in a far preferable state than they're currently in, and not sacrificing his pride in doing so."

"Someone once gave me a firm perch upon which to land," he answered quietly, while squeezing her to him in a hug. "I just thought to pay that deed forward."

"Well, you're certainly doing that," she acknowledged, wriggling a bit closer and closing her eyes. Automatically, he adjusted his arm so his hand lay over her stomach, while his other hand stroked the arm lying on his chest.

"Laura?"

"Hmmmmm?"

"Are you familiar with the expression 'one good turn deserves another'?"

"I've heard it, yes." A smile spread across his lips and he opened his mouth to speak when she continued. "I've also heard straw makes very warm bedding. Itchy, but warm."

He clamped his mouth shut again and frowned at the top of her head. Long after she'd fallen asleep he was still pondering how it was she'd taken a perfect lead in and turned it upside down.

 _Back to the drawing board, Steele, old sport._


	31. Chapter 31: Back to Work

Chapter 31: Back to Work

Tuesday morning marked the beginning of the return to normalcy for the Steele's. As had been her habit the last several nights, Laura fell asleep with Remington but in the early morning hours would return to the sofa for the rest of the night. After waking and putting away the bedding, she'd crossed the room to watch Remington as he slept. Intellectually, she knew he was healing well, and would likely be released from the hospital any day. Her heart, however, took grave exception to leaving him here while she returned to work given less than a week ago she'd been still sitting at his bedside as those twenty-four to forty-eight which would tell the tale ticked away. Brushing back that stubborn and endearing lock of hair from his forehead, she tussled his hair and waited for him to rouse enough for her to say goodbye. Blue eyes, bleary from sleep finally looked up at her.

"I need to go home and get ready," she informed him. "I didn't bring anything suitable to wear." He nodded sagely while his eyes roamed her face, noting the lines of strain at her eyes. Grasping her hand in his, he drew it to his mouth and brushed his lips along he knuckles.

"I'll be fine. Still here amongst my captors, fully focused upon securing my release from this fine establishment," he assured her. She shifted on her feet, and tilting her chin up a tad, looked away, eyes focused on the white wall before them.

"I know," she replied, with all the confidence she might express if asked to prepare a gourmet feast for eight. A tug of her hand and she turned back to look at him, another had her sitting at his side. Cupping her neck, he drew her head down and sampled her lips before his blue eyes met her brown.

"I'll be fine," he repeated. She studied his eyes, then gave a brief, sharp nod and touched her lips to his again.

"Alright, I should be back by noon," she informed him, standing and smoothing her hands over her pants. "What do you think about us giving Elena a break and I'll pick up Chinese for lunch?"

"Pineapple chicken, shrimp in lobster sauce, roast pork yat gaw mein?" he asked hopefully. A smile lifted her lips.

"Of course." Unable to stop herself, she gave him a final kiss. "Lunch, Mr. Steele."

"Lunch, Mrs. Steele," he returned then watched her leave. Glancing at the clock, he pulled up the covers and went back to sleep.

* * *

Remington should have known better than to believe he might sleep in a bit. Attempting to get a full night's sleep in a hospital was akin to attempting to grasp a private moment with Laura before their marriage. There might not be phones ringing, Mildred interrupting or bullets flying, but there was certainly an abundance of nurses who didn't care if a man got a full night's sleep, at least not as long as there was a blood pressure cuff that could be wielded. Laura hadn't departed thirty minutes before the last of the damnably cheery women came in and roused him. A hot shower and a quick shave had sufficed to wake him enough that he was able to pry their realtor's home phone number from his memory. By eight-ten, he had Meredith's assurance she'd be at the hospital within the hour, every listing which met his exacting specifications in hand. If there was anything Meredith had learned across the years of her association with Remington Steele, it was when he was of a mind to make a real estate purchase, it generally meant a generous commission check in her pocket not long after.

After disconnecting with Meredith, Remington again dialed – this time a familiar number, their home. Per Elena, she'd sat Laura down to breakfast before the younger woman had ascended the stairs to shower, change and get ready for the workday ahead. Guilt gave him a swift kick in the shin, as he realized he'd let his pregnant wife depart without him giving a thought to her comfort or staving off the morning sickness she'd been battling. Even as he asked to speak with Christos, he vowed to be more diligent about the matter in the future. A brief chat with his brother hae enlisted his agreement to act in Remington's stead in the real estate hunt, and Christos was on the way to the hospital before Laura returned downstairs. Much to his delight, when Christos bellowed up to the second floor that Remington waited on the phone for her, she picked up the extension in their bedroom.

"Hello?" Her dulcet voice wafted across the line, drawing a crooked smile to his lips.

"If you care even a bit for me, Mrs. Steele, you'll tell me you're reclining across our bed with nary a stitch on that lovely body of yours, so I might indulge in countless fantasies of what I intend to do to you when I join you there again." With a silent laugh, Laura looked down at the dress she was wearing.

"Nothing but a smile, Mr. Steele," she prevaricated, intentionally adding a layer of sultriness to her words. He hummed deep in his throat.

"Ah, the mere idea of each of those enticing freckles bared to my eyes, a veritable feast for a starving man. If only I were there with you I'd…" He proceeded to tell her precisely how he'd attend to each dapple of color… then her neck… then her breasts, leaving her squirming as her vivid imagination took her exactly where he'd hoped it would. When he continued the recount of what he'd do, his daydreams traveling ever downward, she sucked in a staggered breath.

"That's enough, big guy," a corner of her mouth twerking upwards in a smile at the warm laugh which greeted her words.

"But there's so much more to be said, to anticipate," he countered.

"Not right now, there's not. Unless, of course, you wish to… stir me up… before I spend the morning with two handsome, virile, younger men," she teased.

"Mere children," he scoffed. "Mmmm. We both know you need a man to… assuage… those needs of yours. One who is as creative… dedicated… insatiable as yourself." Unseen, he waggled those brows of hers, and she knew he was doing exactly that. "One man, in particular."

"Oh, and who would that be?" she asked coyly. His rich laughter crossed the lines.

"You're a cruel woman, Mrs. Steele."

"Only when you need to be kept in line," she retorted, the smile heard in her voice.

"Until lunch."

"Until lunch, Mr. Steele." After a couple of kisses sent her way, he disconnected the line. The smile on her lips remained there throughout the morning.

* * *

Two stores inspected and signed off on, and Laura, along with young Burton in tow, pulled the Porsche up in front of the Fournier store Monroe's crew was currently working at. Like so many of their friends and family members, Monroe had taken it upon himself to keep things moving forward in the days since Remington was shot. This morning, with Graham in tow, Monroe had visited the remaining sites requiring installation and taken pictures of each store from all angles while taking copious notes and explaining to his shadow how to identify potential breaches in a building. After his meeting at this store, he'd drop off the film for one hour developing and bring the pictures to Remington at the hospital later in the day, so the detective could plan the remaining installations.

Laura had similarly explained the various nuances of the systems the Agency was contracted to install, as she'd put each system through its paces. Zack had offered up thoughtful, insightful questions, affirming, in her mind, they'd chosen correctly by hiring the young man.

"Does the Agency handle exclusively commercial installations or also branch out into residential?" he asked, following on her heels into the store.

"Not only would our systems be overkill in most residences, but the average homeowner wouldn't be able to afford one," she explained. "From time-to-time we've installed systems in homes where valuable art, antiquities, jewelry and the like demanded such measures. But in those cases, the cost of one of our systems was negligible when compared to potential loss." She indicated Monroe and Brandon across the room with a nod of her head in their direction. "I'd recommend that you and Brandon spend time together, getting to know one another. Eventually, you'll find yourselves as partners, and knowing your partner, understanding how their mind works, being able to read the nuances of their body language is sometimes the only weapon you'll have to get yourself out of a sticky situation safely."

"I'll make a point of it," he agreed easily right before they came to a halt in front of the pair of men.

"Zack, I'd like you to meet Monroe Henderson, not only a longtime friend of Mr. Steele's but also his business partner in other pursuits." The two men shook hands. "And, of course, Brandon Graham, our second intern." The two younger men also exchanged handshakes. "Brandon, I was just telling Zack that the two of you need to spend time together, get to know one another. And I don't mean only your shared interests, but your differences as well. Sometimes people who are completely different make the best partners. I could use Mr. Steele and myself as an example. I am logic, facts and rules. Mr. Steele is intuition, instinct, and bending the rules to make them fit how he needs. Among my interests: Running, triathlons, dance and the piano. Mr. Steele: Old movies, art, gemology, and fencing." Her lips twitched at the amusement twinkling in Monroe's eyes at her description of Remington's past pursuits "He and I are far more different than we are alike, yet you'll be hard pressed to find a better team than we are."

"Understood, ma'am," Brandon answered, giving a nod to his future partner.

"Now, there are two other matters we need to go over, that Mr. Steele and I were remiss in considering when we hired the two of you," she continued. "First, there is the matter of using your personal vehicles for business—"

"I don't mind, ma'am," Graham interrupted.

"It's fine by me," Burton said at the same time.

"I appreciate that and you might both think that now, but you'd change your mind, rightfully so, the first time you find your car floating in a pond after a pursuit or shoved down a cliff by a bulldozer," she told them cheekily.

"You've had that happen?" Zack inquired, visions of chases tramping through his mind with more than a little glee.

"More times that I can count. When you're on the job, that liability belongs to the Agency. To that end, we'll be purchasing a couple vehicles for the Agency for your use: older models, understated, but well kept up. Perfect for surveillance." When neither argued, she continued forward. "Last night as we were talking, Mr. Steele and I also realized we had also overlooked the importance of location, or more specifically your home's distance from the office." She turned to address Zack when he opened his mouth and held up a hand. "I understand UCLA's within only a few minutes of the office, but you'll be graduating in less than two months and that could easily change. Brandon," she turned her gaze to the other trainee, "Lives nearly fifty minutes away. When a pressing matter comes up on a case, we seldom have the luxury of waiting an hour to pursue it. Neither of us had given weight to that concern since we've both always lived within fifteen minutes. But, the fact remains, it's vital you both be located within ten to fifteen minutes of the office—"

"Mrs. Steele, I don't think that's poss—" Laura held up a hand, silencing him.

"Let me finish, then we can address any concerns, okay?" Brandon nodded slowly.

"Yes, ma'am."

"It's not a widely known fact, nor one we wish to get around," she leveled a look at the interns which left both nodding their understanding this was to remain confidential, "But Mr. Steele enjoys dabbling in real estate investment. Here in LA, we own multiple commercial properties, as well as our home and our prior homes which we've used for friends and family when they come to town, as well as to sequester clients who need to… lay low. He's recently been keeping his eyes open for the right investment properties to expand our portfolio… residential properties… and believes he's identified a few that meet his exacting requiremets. We've agreed that as part of your benefit package, both of you… as well as any new interns, in the future… will be provided with a residence, which meets your individual needs, at the cost of the Agency." She narrowed her eyes and looked from Zack to Brandon. "You'll be responsible for your own utility bills, as you would be in any home you live in, but since it's Agency business that requires you to relocate into a much pricier area that an intern can be expected to afford, we see that expense as our liability as well." She returned her attention to Zack. "Zack, if I know my husband and partner, as a single young man you can expect a well-appointed apartment with a great view of the city." Her eyes transferred to Brandon. "Brandon, given your familial obligations, a home in a good neighborhood. Now, any questions?"

"Ma'am, are you saying my family can move with me?" Brandon asked, clearly believing this was too good to be true.

"Brandon, Mr. Steele and I both place heavy emphasis on the value of family. We wouldn't have it any other way." She waited and when no other questions were forthcoming added, "You'll both have final approval on the property we suggest for you. We don't want you living where you're not comfortable. Now, if the matter's settled, it's time for me to get back to the hospital and check in on Mr. Steele. Monroe, we'll see you this afternoon?"

"Most certainly," he confirmed.

With that, she departed, Zack accompanying her as his car was left in the parking lot of Century Towers. After dropping him off, she allowed herself to turn inwards, consider the events of the morning. _It felt good_ , she acknowledged silently to herself. _Just doing something so normal felt… good, really good._ Once again, she had to commend Remington. While her instinct was to keep him near, feeling her presence gave her at least some form of control over his continued path to recovery, he'd recognized if she continued devoting herself entirely to him, she'd eventually butt up against one of her greatest fears.

* * *

" _ **I'm terrified of losing myself in you. Of being swallowed up by you until there's no**_ _ **me**_ _ **anymore!"**_

"… _ **I saw what happened to my mother. She was completely, totally consumed by my father. Nothing moved in our house unless it revolved totally around him."**_

* * *

She'd needed that shove out the door and if he were up to it, she'd be inclined to show him how much she appreciated it. She laughed silently to herself, that thought stirring up the memory of their phone call this morning. As crazy as it might make her at times, that bit of the devil in him was a great deal of his allure to her. She'd not a doubt he'd known she'd been worrying herself into a lather over leaving him behind. The x-rated fantasies he'd whispered into her ear had certainly stoked the perennially burning embers of desire for him within her into a full fledged forest fire, but they'd also reassured that her eternally optimistic, cavalier, charming partner and husband was safe and well despite being out from under her watchful eyes.

Her arrival at the office this morning had only added to the slowly blossoming belief all would be well in their world very shortly. The Agency had been as much of a home to her in years past as her house, then later her loft. Maybe even more so. When she walked through those doors, she knew precisely who she was: a strong, capable, independent woman, who had seized her own future and carefully crafted it. In fact, the Agency might have been more of a home to her than anywhere else, as it was only outside those doors the old doubts, fears, questions of who she was crept in. To see their offices no longer looking like a warzone? She'd been both stunned and immensely relieved.

Sherry had returned with the boys to Denver on Sunday evening, her vacation from the hospital ending. Not, however, before she'd clearly cracked a whip in the direction of the general contractor. The door by Mildred's desk, leading to the hallway adjoining the offices next door, had been installed, drywall patched, and wall repainted. The door now looked as though it had always been there. The change to Remington's office, the saferoom and her office new office had been the most dramatic. Like the reception area, the gap in his office wall now featured a finished door. One of the alcoves had been framed closed and dry walled, the wood accent wall restored and _somehow_ Remington's wall of pictures had been rehung, almost exactly as it had once been. The door to her old office had been sealed off and drywalled as well. A fresh coat of paint on all walls, and his office was in pristine condition, ready to impress new clients. Astoundingly, the saferoom... _nursery,_ she amended to herself with a smile… was completely finished, as were the breakroom and her office. She walked her new domain which was nearly a replica of Remington's, sans his wall of pictures and furnishings, of course. The bathroom, she noted, was an upgraded version of Remington's own, the fixtures more refined, the tiling more elegant, feminine even.

Mildred had arrived at the office just as Laura finished inspecting the remainder of the remodel.

"Oh, hi, honey," Mildred greeted, her surprised pleasure reflected in her tone. "What are you doing here?"

"Mr. Steele put me to work," she answered, flashing Mildred a look that said the irony wasn't lost on her. "The difference in the office is nothing short of amazing," she noted.

"That Mrs. Micheals is quite a woman," Mildred praised. "The contractor didn't know what _hit_ him." She smacked a palm with closed fist for emphasis. "Oh, he thought he'd be able to convince her the mess was all par for the course, but by the time she'd finished rattling off the list of projects she'd worked on over the years and the name of her father's company, the man's mouth was hanging open. She told him there were no and's, if's or but's about it: Either reception and both of your offices were done by week's end, or they'd be putting in time over the weekend and his crew could help babysit the twins while she babysat _them._ "

"I always did like Sherry," Laura grinned.

"Oh, and Bernice and I worked together to reassemble Mr. Steele's photographs. I think we came pretty close to getting it right."

"You did. I was wondering how the contractor had managed it. How are things holding up around here?"

"Everything's fine, Mrs. Steele. We're on the slow side, of course, but Mr. Michael's is watching over things, doing the legwork on the skip traces we're accepting. And you know darned well I'm not gonna let anything happen to the Agency in your absence. You just concentrate on getting the Boss home," Mildred advised.

"And Marvin?"

"Started yesterday. He's gonna be a marvel on the white-collar side," Mildred enthused.

"High praise, coming from you." She mulled over what she and Remington were about to do and walked across the room, perching her bottom on the edge of the desk. Mildred had been part of the team for a long time, and even more so was family, Remington's 'other mother', if you will. The idea of her not knowing why they were about to provide the interns housing, and how she might interpret that, was unfathomable. "Mildred, I want you to be the first to know about a decision Mr. Steele and I have made, as well as why." The older woman grew alarmed.

"You kids aren't closing the Agency because of what happened, are you?" Laura laughed quietly and shook her head in answer.

"No, not at all. What happened had nothing to do with the Agency, really. It was revenge on Roselli and Simpson's part, for very personal reasons. I'd like what I tell you to stay just between you, Mr. Steele and me, however."

"My lips are sealed," the older woman vowed, making a gesture as though zipping her lips shut. "But you should know that without asking."

"You're right," Laura smiled again. "Alright. Brandon, one of the new interns…" She went on to explain Brandon's circumstances and the plan devised by Remington.

"Oh, honey, the two of you never stop surprising me! What a wonderful idea," she praised, then suddenly frowned. "But I'm afraid your plan might have a big hole in it."

"Why's that?" Laura asked, puzzled.

"You're third intern. If the three boys ever sit down together…" she left the rest unsaid. Laura straightened where she sat, eyes widening.

"You're right." Stretching across the desk she picked up the receiver to the phone and tapped in a number, then waited until she was connected to Remington's room.

"Steele, here," came Remington's voice across the line.

"No, Steele here," she volleyed, and laughed when he seemed flummoxed by the response. His rich laughter joined hers.

"Laura, I'm not quite sure if I find that endearing or annoying," he finally responded.

"Well, when you figure it out, let me know, because after all these years I'm still not quite sure myself," she smirked. "Mr. Steele, as our indispensable Ms. Krebs just pointed out, we have a problem."

"Oh, what might that be?" he queried.

"A third intern. Marvin? I'd add one more real estate holding to that list of yours."

"Ah, the lad's already providing inspiration for the growth of the Agency and its holdings, confirming my initial instincts on hiring him last—" Laura rolled her eyes.

"Goodbye, Mr. Steele," she cut him off, then hung up the phone. _That man,_ she growled to herself, even as a smile lifted her lips. "We'll see you at the hospital this afternoon?" she asked Mildred as she stood up, preparing to leave.

"With bells on."

By the time Laura pushed opened the door to Remington's room she felt a curious combination of being invigorated and exhausted at once. She glanced longingly towards the couch, then stuttered stepped to a halt when she realized Remington was not alone in the room. Meredith stood and held out her hand.

"Mrs. Steele, I was just leaving," the realtor announced. "I'll be back at four to pick you up." Laura's eyes flicked towards Remington but to her credit she never gave any indication she had no idea what the woman was referring to.

"I look forward to it," she answered, giving Remington a fully questioning look only when the woman had departed. "And what am I doing at four?" she inquired, as she began removing cartons of food from the bag she was holding and setting them on the coffee table.

"Uh, I believe you'll be accompanying Meredith to four pieces of property which Christos found suitable when he previewed them this morning," he proved with a tug of his ear. "Each currently vacant, seller motivated and with a fast close available for an all cash offer."

"You've been busy this morning," she observed, handing him a carton of pineapple chicken and a pair of chopsticks.

"Not so much myself as Christos. I merely determined which properties I felt were sound investments, then he acted in my stead and walked through each," he shrugged.

"So, what will I be seeing this afternoon?"

"A Spanish style home in Beverly Center built in 1925. Four beds, three and a half baths, with the possibility of a fifth bedroom. Twenty-seven-hundred square feet or so. The land itself is on the small side but it has a covered veranda and modest sized pool. It needs a small bit of updating, some fresh paint on the walls, but could be ready for occupancy in less than a month." He lifted his brows in her direction as he took a bite of food. "There's a detail about the property I find… intriguing... and suspect you might as well once you put it together."

"Let me guess: You have no intention of telling me what that detail is," she mused.

"None whatsoever," he grinned at her, blue eyes twinkling with mischief. He leaned forward intending to exchange the chicken for the container of shrimp and lobster sauce, only to draw in a sharp breath and straighten abruptly. She was on her feet in an instant.

"Are you alright?" she asked, alarm threading through her voice. He held up his hand, closing his eyes and nodding.

"Fine, fine, although I can promise you I won't be repeating that particular action again for a bit," he rasped out. Placing the shrimp and lobster sauce in his hands, she sat back down and resumed eating.

"And the other three?"

"Two units in Century Park East, one on the nineteenth floor, the other on the twenty first. Both one bedroom, one bath with a terrace and views of the city. Carpeting will need to be replaced in one, hardwood floors sanded and refinished in the second, but both will take less than a week's time to prepare."

"I take it those are the apartments you have in mind for Marvin and Zack?" she verified.

"They are," he affirmed. "The last is a three bedroom, three-and-a-half bath in the Wilshire House on—"

"Three bedrooms? Three-and-a-half baths? I think your mind's turned to _mush_ , Mr. Steele. Why would—"

"If you'll allow me to finish, Mrs. Steele," he answered placidly.

"By all means," she retorted with a sweep of her hand across her body.

"The property is a foreclosure, which means we'll purchase it low and values at the Wilshire House have consistently increased in value by a minimum of ten percent each year. Additionally, it is being sold fully furnished, which takes the burden of those costs off our shoulders. Given it is only four years old, no renovations, other than paint, will be required. Low investiture, high return." He paused to take another bite of his shrimp then waved a chopstick in her direction. "We'd use the property strictly for friends and family when they visit. The number of bedrooms would allow either Christos or Zeth to stay there with their families, yet when it is only my father and Catherine or your mother in residence, they will be very comfortable."

"And if we need somewhere to stash a client? Then what?"

"My old flat," he replied promptly. "All I ask is that you have a look. Within five years the property will be valued at nearly double what we've paid."

"I'll look," she agreed, then followed up with the warning, "But I make no promises." She set her container of food back on the coffee table and leaning back on the couch rubbed at her face with her hands.

"That's all I ask." He observed her through his lashes as he took another bite of food. "Tired, love?"

"Mmmmmm," she hummed, keeping her hands pressed to her face. "It's… odd. Here," she tapped her fingers against her forehead, "I feel more invigorated than I have in a week, but I'm fighting to keep my eyes open."

Dropping her hands, she stood and began closing cartons and returning them to the bag. With a longing glance at the shrimp in his hands, he took one last bite and handed it to her. He imagined they'd face many days ahead, maybe weeks, when her energy suddenly flagged as her body adjusted to pregnancy.

"I could use a bit of a kip myself," he suggested, rising to his feet, still with a little difficulty. "A man can't get decent sleep in the hospital, one of the many ironies I've found throughout my stay: them, telling you to rest, then not allowing for it." She smiled wanly at him, then looked down ruefully at the green silk dress she'd chosen to wear that morning.

"I need to change, otherwise I'll be a wrinkled mess for the showings." He let his eyes wander appreciatively over her from head-to-toe.

"Wrinkled, perhaps, but never a mess," he disagreed.

While she changed into shorts and a shirt in the bathroom, Remington climbed onto bed and for the first time in a week, gingerly turned to lay on his left side. He found his right side ached dully, but it was neither something he couldn't withstand nor which would prevent sleep. What he wanted more than anything at the moment, was to feel Laura nestled fully against him, with her stomach free for him to explore, for, unless he missed his mark, there was a reason behind her choice to sport a dress today as opposed to one of those attractive little suits or the slacks and a blouse she usually favored. She gave him a concerned look as she slipped into bed in front of him.

"Are you sure you should be sleeping on your side so soon?"

"We'll be fine, so long as you don't wake me with an elbow to the side," he drolly replied, reminding her of the number of times she'd waken him such. She laughed silently, and within moments was asleep next to his side.

Closing his eyes as well, Remington nudged her shirt aside and allowed his sensitive fingers to explore the skin beneath. A smile graced his lips as he easily identified a new fullness to her belly that would be unnoticeable simply by looking at her. It still boggled his mind. Their child. In there. Growing, nourished, kept safe, by his wife's body. Then he took a moment to marvel at that. Job, home, wife, child. He'd still no idea why providence had bestowed this life on him, but would be forever grateful that it had. The smile stayed on his lips long after he'd fallen asleep.

* * *

Murphy walked down the hall towards Remington's room, having confirmed with Mildred that Laura had returned to the hospital. He'd extended his stay in LA for another two weeks, with he and Sherry agreeing he'd assess where things stood with Laura, Remington's recovery and the Agency, at which time he'd either return home or extend his stay further. Steven could carry his agency, at least in the short term, and his parents had volunteered to help Sherry with the boys, however they could. He didn't relish the idea of not seeing his wife and children for such an extended period, but he had just a bit too much loyalty and chivalry to return home as Laura and Remington were still feeling the after effects of the shooting.

The Agency phones had rung off the hooks all last week. The first two days, the calls were primarily from the press looking for updates, with a few prior clients expressing their dismay and seeking information on where to send flowers. He'd been impressed as he watched Mildred turned what was an inconvenience into a benefit, as she directed Bernice to request anyone wishing to send the Steele's something to make a donation to the Lost and Found Mission in their name instead. In the two days that followed, press and well-wishers had given way to legitimate clients, some unaware of recent events and others hoping the Agency was still in operation in spite of those same events. Midway through Tuesday, he had six skip traces and two asset searches he felt were solid opportunities for the Agency, but didn't want to presume to accept business in the Steeles' names without their thumbs up.

Pushing open the door to Remington's room, Murphy halted upon finding the pair asleep. It still shocked the hell out of him that the two of them had somehow cut through all the bullshit between them and had managed to turn their bickering flirtation into something durable, but the proof that they had was before him right now. With a smile, he departed. Business could wait another day.


	32. Chapter 32: Released

Chapter 32: Released

Laura mentally brushed aside the thought invading her dream which insisted something wasn't quite right. She was enjoying herself far, far too much.

 _She was at the carnival, and, having eaten her fill of midway hotdogs and cotton candy, she at last stood at the front of the line for the whirl-a-gig. Giving Remington's hand a tug, she found he'd firmly planted his feet._

" _Come on," she urged, tugging again._

" _Ah, Laura," he gave a tug of his ear, "As delightful as being spun about as though one is in the washing machine appears, I believe I'll find a great deal more enjoyment in watching you."_

" _Chicken," she smirked. He lifted a brow at her._

" _I prefer to think of it as sane," he challenged. With a flip of her head over her shoulder, she grinned him, then left him behind without looking back._

 _Almost as much as the circus, she loved the rides at carnivals and amusement parks. Spin her, flip her, send her hurtling downwards at tremendous speeds, turn her upside down… she loved them all. Always had. The ride began to slowly turn and she couldn't stop the wide smile from spreading across her face, already anticipating the rush of adrenaline._

Her eyes flew open.

"Oh, God," she cried out, then slapped her hand over her mouth as she rolled from the bed and sprinted across the room towards the bathroom. It took Remington, startled from his sleep as he'd been, a moment to process what was happening, and he sat up to give chase only to suck in a harsh breath as pain shot across his abdomen at the quick movement. Panting a bit, he managed to get to his feet, and followed the retching sounds to where Laura was hunkered over the toilet. Feeling utterly helpless, he could do little more than hold back her hair.

"I'm never…" She panted, then gagged again "… eating Chinese… in my life again." When her stomach finally stopped convulsing, she fell back to sit on the floor, and pulling a generous helping of toilet paper off the roll, blew her nose. Tossing the paper into the toilet, she covered her face with her hands. She shuddered as she finally caught her breath, only to find her hand being pulled away from her face and a cup of water pressed into it.

"Rinse, then brush your teeth and we'll get you back into bed," he ordered softly.

Casting him a grateful look, she swirled the water around her mouth and spit it into the toilet before flushing, then with the assistance of an extended hand, took to shaky legs. Minutes later, ginger lozenge dissolving in her mouth, they tumbled back into bed together. Nuzzling his chin against the top of her head, he concentrated on soothing her back to sleep.

"Seems a shame to ban permanently ban Chinese food for one nasty incident of morning sickness," he commented quietly.

"See how you feel when kung pao chicken comes out of _your_ nose," she retorted sleepily. He grimaced at the image and found he had no answer for _that._ That he'd been rendered speechless drew a smile to her lips and she drifted back to sleep.

Sleep, however, was lost to Remington, so instead he returned his hand to Laura's tummy, and concentrated on memorizing the slight swell. His fingers veritably itched for pencil and paper so that he might sketch this newest change, lamenting his vow to create a new portrait weekly had been interrupted by the machinations of Roselli and Anna.

Anna. He'd given little thought to her death, with the exception of the brief conversation he'd had with Laura. _Why_ , he wondered now, _did she simply not make public the truth of me, instead of resorting to murder_? _She could have placed at risk all that mattered most to me: My name, reputation and by virtue of those, Laura's agency._ Despite Laura's claims that they, the life they were building, was now her priority, he still didn't quite believe it. Who she was, what she was, was inexorably bound to the Agency into which she'd poured creativity, heart, endless hours. If losing it were the cost of his past, he'd no confidence they would survive.

But now, the threat, to life and lives was gone. He didn't rejoice in the how of it, but as he'd told Laura, he couldn't help but be relieved. He speculated on what that said about him as a person, but with no answers easily found, moved on.

The threats to this life being upended were rapidly dwindling. Gone, any worry about the Yard, Interpol and any other number of European and Agency police forces. _Anna,_ he shook his head. The Palermo brothers. Roselli. Of those who knew his pursuits before LA, there were only two who might be foolish enough to risk the displeasure of fellow miscreants or his own wrath for turning on him: Chalkie and Felicia. Especially if were to save their own hides. But the little tete-a-tete he'd had with Chalkie after the debacle two summers before in London and a rumor he'd turned on a fellow thief, would likely have him thinking twice again. As for Felicia? He could only hope that she still preferred to be on his good side… or that he was still needed to get her out of a fix, should she find herself in one. But after the stunts she'd pulled in Monaco then France, he'd be hard pressed to ride to her rescue.

Perhaps kismet had taken its best shot, pun aside, and decided he'd at last given due penance for past misdeeds. The very idea he might be able to retain this life…

His head turned as the door to the room swung open, and Dr. Bennett entered. Giving Laura a gentle squeeze, he stroked a firm hand down her arm, rousing her. Dazed by sleep, it took her a long moment to realize Remington's doctor had entered the room, but when she did, she sat up and swinging her legs over the side, moved to the nearby chair.

"Sorry," she apologized, automatically, feeling as though she'd been caught by her mother with a boy in her bed.

"No need to be," the doctor answered good naturedly, then focused his attention on Remington. "Mr. Steele, how would you like to go home tomorrow morning?" Laura sat up straighter, her eyes moving from Bennett to Remington.

"I can think of little I'd like more."

"There will be conditions, restrictions," Bennett forewarned. Remington gave a single nod in response.

"Of course. And what might those be?"

"Follow-ups, to begin with," Bennett provided, "The first which would take place here next Tuesday, when we'll also remove the staples from your wound, if all looks well."

"Easy enough."

"You'll need to continue to walk, increasing the number of times throughout the day, as well as duration," Bennett expounded. "No lifting, not until given clearance. No driving. No baths or swimming. No strenuous or vigorous activity," he glanced pointedly in Laura's direction, "Including of the variety that placed Mrs. Steele in her current state." To her horror, she felt the blush crawl across her skin at the pointed remark, feeling only marginally better as she saw color pinken Remington's cheeks before he let out a dry cough of disbelief.

"Are you saying I need _permission_ to…?" His lovely wife snickered and couldn't hide the dimple that flashed in her cheek, amused by the abject disbelief with which he'd spoken. A pair of full, dark brows knit together, and blue eyes narrowed on her in response.

"If I had a dollar for every woman that reacted like that, then a dollar more for when they accompanied their husband and threatened to string me up, I could retire," Bennet mused.

"You don't know my wife… or the will of pure steel she has," he groused under his breath, earning a smirk from said wife. "Any other… _conditions?_ " he asked, saying the last word with considerable derision.

"No alcoholic beverages or soda of any kind and I'll be releasing you with another week's worth of antibiotics and a mild pain killer in case you need it," Bennett wrapped up. "Any questions?"

"Can I return to work?" She tried, she really tried not to let the surprise show on her face, but a brow lifted at her said he'd caught her reaction.

"In a limited capacity. Two to three hours a day, no more, and as long as it doesn't require considerable physical activity." Bennett looked from one to the other of them, then clapped his hands. "Alright, since that seems to be all the questions, plan on being out of here by noon tomorrow. I'll see you on morning rounds then will sign your release."

Glancing at her watch after Bennett left the room, Laura stood and touched her lips to Remington's, then caressed his cheek with her hand.

"Home," she said simply.

"Mmmmm. Perhaps a bit of a celebration is in order, eh? Dinner from Chez Rives?" After what happened not long before, the thought of food made her stomach flip-flop, but she forced a smile on her face for his sake.

"Call Claude, order what you'd like, and tell him I'll pick it up at seven." With a final caress of his cheek she moved to stand erect, only to find he'd slipped his fingers behind her neck, pulling her back down.

"Perhaps…" he lifted his brows and waggled his head, "… A second celebration…" He drew her lips to his and sampled them "… Is in order." With a smile, she sat down on the edge of the bed, and leaned into the kiss. His lips teased in flirted with hers, until she reeled him in, threading her fingers through his hair, and pressing against the back of his head. He answered the implied demand, latching his mouth over hers, his lips ravaging hers and a hand to her waist urging her to lay next to him. She drew away far enough for their eyes to connect.

"You heard the doctor. No hanky-panky, Mr. Steele," she admonished playfully.

"Mmmm hmmm," he hummed, teasing her lips again, and nudging her downwards. "Only hanky, no panky. Understood, Mrs. Steele," he murmured, capturing her lips again. He nibbled on her bottom lip, and she upped the ante with a tip of the tongue to his upper one. With a half laugh and half groan, he enticed her lips to part so he might savor her sweet flavor. Her fingers dove into his hair, her nails gently raking his scalp before her fingertip whispered down his neck, pausing to caress behind, beneath his ears. She felt his sigh as much as tasted it on her lips, then laughed against his when she realized a stealthy hand was moving steadily upwards to claim a breast as its own. Abruptly, she broke the kiss and rolled gracefully from the bed. Plunking her hands on her hips, she shook her head at him.

"That was definitely moving into the realm of 'panky', Mr. Steele."

"Merely testing whether you're still able to resist my charms." He pursed his lips in a pout. "It seems those skills aren't the least bit rusty."

"Will of pure steel, remember?" she asked, tossing his own words back at him." She kissed him one last time, then backed away from the bed. "On that note, I need to get ready. Meredith is due any minute."

His eyes followed her as she gathered her clothes and returned to the bathroom to change, then he lay on his back, crossing his arms.

"Permission…" he groused to himself. Perhaps providence still had it in for him after all.

ABCABCABCABCABCABCABCABC

On Tuesday evening, Laura accompanied Meredith to each of the four properties Remington had prioritized with Christos's approval and she couldn't find a fault with one of them. The house had been the first of their stops, and Laura couldn't help but laugh quietly as a wide, dimpled smile lit her face when she discovered the 'intriguing' detail Remington had spoken of when Meredith turned her car onto Holt Avenue then into a driveway three doors down. The house had been… perfect. Four bedrooms, all large and airy, a den which could be made into a fifth bedroom if someone wished, a decent sized living room and a dining room which could seat eight. The small pool was surrounded by a wooden deck, with enough room to allow for a table, chairs and barbeque grill. But, most importantly, the house was in a lovely neighborhood which touted one of the lowest crime rates in the city, exactly what Brandon had envisioned one day moving young Kaya to.

The two apartments in Century Park East were reminiscent of Remington's flat with their comfortable living and dining rooms, upgraded kitchens, fireplace, balcony, large master with en suite and fantastic views of the city. And, try as she might, she couldn't find a fault with the large, sprawling, three bedroom apartment in Wilshire House. He wasn't wrong: the apartment would be ideal for friends and family when they came to visit. Thomas would love the gourmet kitchen, Abigail the amenities the complex offered, and if Zeth or Christos came to LA for a visit, the apartment was certainly more than suited for a large family on vacation. She could even picture offering it up to Murphy and Sherry whenever they visited with the children.

The thought of furnishing all four residences, on top of the purchase prices, was enough to make her head hurt, but that evening Remington had dismissed the concerns out of hand.

"Did you approve of the furnishings currently in each?" he inquired.

"All were well appointed," she hedged. And they had been. The home's furnishings were warm, comfortable and beckoned a family to use them. The flats for Marvin and Zack, stylish and modern; and the large apartment, elegant yet inviting.

"Which is why we'll negotiate all furnishings into the purchase." Her brows raised at the response, but if it meant she could avoid adding more shopping to the list already including clothes for her and furniture for her office, she wasn't about to argue the point.

On Wednesday morning, as on Tuesday, Laura inspected and passed two more of Fournier's stores with Zack in her company, then delivered the plans for the next store to Monroe, designed by Remington from the pictures and notes Monroe had brought by the day before. She was back at the hospital by eleven and Remington was released from its confines by noon. A quiet luncheon for six – Remington, Laura, Christos, Elena, Thomas and Catherine – gave way to a long afternoon nap… in their own bed for the first time in nine days. Navigating the staircase between the floors had not been effortless on Remington's part, and Laura found herself saying a silent prayer of gratitude for the amazing people that surrounded their lives, as Christos aided him up the stairs with casual ease, not offending her husband's sometimes prickly pride in the least.

That evening, Elena hosted a welcome home gathering for the Steele's friends and family. In attendance, Thomas and Catherine; Donald, Frances and the children; Bernice, Jason and Little Man; Monroe and Jocelyn; Murphy; and, the woman without whom no family gathering would be complete, Mildred. The cozy group of eighteen gathered on the terrace to dine on the Greek feast on a buffet table heavily laden with papoutsakia, pastitsio, kleftiko, kritharaki, and afelia. And for those with a sweet tooth? Loukoumades, kalo prama and galaktoboureko. Given the warm evening, the pool had been opened for the children to play in, leaving the adults vigilantly watching over them, but able to converse freely without too many interruptions. Despite enjoying the festivities immensely – after all, he was the guest of honor, always an appealing circumstance in his book – Remington found from time-to-time throughout the evening that prolonged sitting or standing had moved from mildly uncomfortable to naggingly, achingly painful, and would relegate himself to a lounge chair where he could recline.

Laura finally corralled Murphy so they could take a few minutes alone together. After he apprised her of the pending cases he'd stopped by the hospital to discuss the day prior, conversation turned to personal matters.

"So," she led in, leaning her backside against the veranda wall and taking a sip of her water, "What gave me away, partner?" Mimicking her stance, Murphy looked at her with open curiosity.

"Gave what away?"

"When Remington and I announced I'm pregnant, _everyone_ was shocked, but you." She gave him an appraising look. "You knew," she accused lightly. He nodded his head, confirming her suspicions.

"In the loft, after…" he shifted uncomfortably "You told Steele 'we're' okay." He shrugged his shoulders. "Add that to the 'flu' all the week prior, I wouldn't be much of a detective if I hadn't been able to put it together."

"Well, don't tell _him_ that I let it slip," she gave Murphy a conspiratorial smile. "Right now, I'm one up on him, given he blurted it out to Mother."

"The two of you are still keeping score, huh?" he asked, clearly amused.

"Only when it counts," she retorted with a laugh. He crossed his arms, and regarded her thoughtfully.

"Was it planned?" She pursed her lips and tapped a finger against them as she mulled how to respond.

"In all honesty?" He nodded. "When we arrived home after Mexico, Greece, we had a pregnancy scare. The party line has been we decided to 'stopped trying not to get pregnant,' to let nature take its course. We're two intelligent adults. We both know what that meant. So, yeah, it was planned." Looking across the terrace, she caught Remington's eye and he nodded in answer, then carefully stood and went inside the house.

"Well, I _am_ surprised. Not that you're pregnant, of course, but I never pictured the two of you starting a family so soon," he confessed. She shrugged.

"I guess 'soon' depends on how you look at it," slipping her hand through his arm, she indicated they should walk. "We've been involved for nearly five years, working out many issues I don't think most couples address until after marriage. Only a few months after you left, I realized he'd make a remarkable father one day. Kids are… drawn to him. You've seen my nieces and nephew, Little Man… even your own boys."

"And you, pal? Are you ready to back off, to not live and breathe the Agency?" he wondered, as blunt as he'd ever been. She nodded slowly.

"I won't pretend it will always be easy, but Mr. Steele and I have already worked most of those details out. Both our hours will be shorter, which is why, in large part, we brought in the interns, but we'd already begun leaving the Agency at six each night, unless there was a matter which had to be attended to after hours." She mulled the question further. "We've brought in the three interns which will make those shortened days all the more possible, while still allowing the Agency to grow. And, as I'm sure you've seen, Remington designed a safe room between his office and mine, which was actually intended from the start to serve dual purposes: A place to retreat to should Christmas last year repeat itself, and as a nursery for our child one day." Remington exited the house and held out a hand to Murphy.

"It seems I am indebted to you further, Michaels," Remington announced directly, as the three took seats on the chaises.

"How's that?"

"Firstly, for preventing Anna from finishing what she'd begun. Secondly, for stepping in and overseeing the Agency both while I was in London and the days… since." Reclining, he slung an arm around Laura's waist where she perched on the side of the chaise next to him. "But in my eyes, of far more importance, for being there for Laura in the days after." Releasing Laura from his loose embrace for a moment, he reached into his shirt pocket, and extended several envelopes to the other man, who gave them a puzzled look.

"What's this?" he asked, as he flipped the first open, brows furrowing when he saw what he held in hand. "Plane tickets to London?"

"Open ended, for you, Sherry and the boys," Laura stepped in to explain. "First class tickets to London, where you'll stay at the townhouse on Hanover Terrace for a week."

"Information about the house as well as the area are in another of the envelopes," Remington expounded.

"Then train and boat tickets which will take you to Galway, Ireland where you'll stay another week at Ashford Castle," Laura continued.

"Information also in that last envelope," Remington stepped in. "You can stay the two weeks or less, whatever your schedule allows. Then, of course, tickets to return home. Not a repayment of my debt to you," he clarified, "Merely a thank you for all you've done, now and with Roselli."

"I don't know what to say," Murphy told them both, holding up a hand in a helpless gesture. "Sher will be beside herself."

"Say nothing, simply enjoy," Remington recommended.

The couple spoke with Murphy at length, then when he departed Laura reclined back next to her husband. They simply enjoyed being back at home and able to watch the other adults intermingling and the children at play in the pool.

"Mildred and Elena seem to have hit it off," she observed.

"Hmmmm, I noticed," he noted dryly, with a raise of the brow. "Why is it that it worries me they have?"

"Worried they're trading secrets?" she teased. "Or better yet, discussing the mischief you're inclined to get into?"

"Ah, the latter, I believe," he admitted with a tug at his ear.

"All the better to keep you in line," she smirked.

"Ah, but a well-behaved Remington Steele would bore you to tears. It's not knowing what I might do next that keeps you intrigued," he rejoined, turning his head and giving her a lopsided smile. She could only smile and shake her head, before leaning it against his shoulder.

They allowed themselves the luxury of indulging in the peaceful solitude of one another's company for several more minutes, before their natural instincts as hosts demanded they rise and mingle. Much later that evening, guests departed, and Elena and Christos long ago gone to bed, Remington lay stretched on his side on their bed and unfastening several buttons of his pajama shirt which adorned Laura's cherished frame, he brushed aside the fabric so he could see, as well as feel, the changes in her body over the course of the last eight days. Her fingers alternately plucked at and wandered through his hair, her eyes fastened on his face so that she might record to memory, permanently, the look of astonished wonder displayed there.

"It seems only a minute has passed since we found out, yet already our little one is making their presence clearly known," he observed, blue eyes twinkling when he looked up at her, the fingers which had been tracing the ever so slight rise in the center of her abdomen pausing. She hummed her agreement.

"I realized yesterday that most of my suits will have to be relegated to the rear of the closet for now." She reached down and caressed the burgeoning area of her stomach. "If Baby Steele takes after their father, I'll be huge… maybe frighteningly so." He looked up at her under the camouflage of his lashes, intent on reading her response, rather than relying on words, for the questions that came to mind at her comment.

"Does that bother you? Do you think I'll find you any less desirable than I do now?" She tilted her head to consider both queries, raising her brows when she found the answers.

"No," she drew out the word. "Not at all. After the baby's born, I'll put in the time at both my barre and running to get back into shape fairly quickly." She slanted a glance in his direction. "And as fascinated as you are with the changes this early on, I suspect as my pregnancy lengthens it will only further whet your already voracious appetite and I'll needed to exercise a great deal of creativity to keep you in check." He jerked his head up, and cracked a laugh.

" _My_ voracious appetite? It seems to me, Mrs. Steele, that my… appetite… is not only matched, but perhaps even exceeded, by your own." Smiling widely, she ruffed his hair but didn't deny the charge as stated. Why bother? Having Remington at her fingertips was the equivalent of having a smorgasbord of the world's finest chocolates ready and waiting for her to sample anytime she wished, yet far, far more fulfilling. Reaching over, she turned out the bedside lamp, then gave his shoulder a slight pull in hint. With slow, deliberate movement, he shifted upwards to lay on his side and waited until she wriggled her way backward to spoon with him. When her hands reached to rebutton the pajama shirt, he brushed them away, resettling his hand over the swell of her abdomen. "Mmmm mmm," he disagreed on a hum. "Baby Steele is yours all day, each day. I'm of a mind to declare unfettered access in the evening hours as my right." She laughed quietly against him.

"I suppose that can be arranged," she agreed. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply her scent. He got lost in his thoughts, not even realizing the silence had drawn long and he'd tightened his hold about her. "Are you okay?" her voice echoed her concern as she stroked his arm with a hand. He started a bit, brought out of his reverie, then pressed a kiss to her shoulder.

"I'm just so bloody grateful, love. To be home. To be here with you. To know I'll see our child born, watch them grow." She found his hand on her stomach and tangled their fingers together.

"So am I."

"I can't help but think simply being here means providence has finally decided I've paid my dues for past misdeeds," he shared, giving his theory voice. She rolled to her back and palmed his cheek.

"Remington, have you ever considered fate, kismet, providence – whatever you call it on any given day – owes _you_ not the other way around?" she proposed. "How many wrongs have been done to you, especially as a child? Maybe the reason you were able to survive the streets, were never caught when… purloining… jewels, works of art, and the reason you made it through this crisis is because you were made to pay the price for the thoughtlessness, selfishness of others countless times in the past." He nodded slowly, mulling the thought.

"I hadn't," he admitted, with a tilt of his head. "But either way, I believe the slate is now clean." He caressed her lower lip with a thumb. "This is mine, and I won't let go of it easily," he vowed, leaning down to feather his lips over hers, before gently patting her hip. Taking the hint, she returned to her side and let him wrap his body around hers.

"Neither will I," she answered, softly, belatedly, laying her hand on top of his when it found the small rise in her stomach again.

They spoke no further on the evening, and for the first time in more than a week, found a solid night's sleep in the shelter of their own home


	33. Chapter 33: Adieus & Acquisitions

Chapter 33: Adieus & Acquisitions

Two and a half weeks had passed and the Steele household had gone from one of quiet gratitude for Remington's recovery to one of frustrated tension.

Nine days after Remington's release from the hospital, Elena and Christos had returned to Greece. Now that he was fully on the mend, able to traverse the stairs of the home with ease and gladly taking charge of cooking duties for the Steele household again, Elena felt their presence was more in demand at home. Promises had been extracted that he and Laura would stay at least a week when Roselli's trial mandated their presence there, then only after they'd both been covered in kisses and subjected to a bevy of relieved tears, did Elena lead her son out the door who couldn't resist either his parting smirk or reminder.

"Just remember when you land before Ioseph, it was Zeth's doing this time, not my own." His laughter followed behind him at Laura's answering glower.

Thomas and Catherine had left for England the day following. Two mares were due to foal any day and Thomas had always made it a point to be present for each birth. Remington and Laura had accompanied his father and… stepmother… to the airport, leaving their goodbyes for the last minute at the departure gate.

"Thank you for coming, Father," Remington told the man as they hugged. The Marquess lay a palm against his son's cheek.

"To have lost you so soon after finding you would have been… devastating." Thomas nodded his head as he spoke the last. Remington took a step back, and grasping Laura's hand with one hand, he shoved the other in his pocket. Rocking back on his heels, he averted his head.

"Will you… come… when our child is born," he ventured to ask. The question drew Catherine to lay a hand against her husband's arms, knowing what such a request would mean to him.

"At your invitation, there's nowhere else I'd be," Thomas agreed, moisture dampening his eyes.

"Perhaps, stay through the holidays?" Remington dared to press.

"We'll clear our schedules," Thomas promised.

And finally, on Sunday, Murphy also returned home, Laura accompanying him alone to the airport.

"I don't know what to say other than, thanks, Murph," she told her old friend and partner on a soft voice as she embraced him in a hug. "If it hadn't been for you…" Releasing him, she looked skyward, blinking her eyes rapidly at the thought of exactly that 'if'.

Murphy swallowed hard, as the memories he'd tried with all his might to keep at bay swamped him. Remington on his knees, his face a mask of confused shock as he toppled forward like a felled tree. Laura's faced paled in horror, the look of desperation as her eyes moved from the gun in Simpson's hand to the person upon who it was trained and how that looked transformed into a proprietary determination to save the man she loved, even if it meant sacrificing her own life. Her, scrambling across the room on all fours towards her husband. A finger tightening on a trigger. His ears ringing at explosion from his own gun, as he instinctively extinguished the threat. Then, the memory that might haunt him the rest of his days: Laura, eyes overflowing, pleading with him to tell her the man she held on her lap would survive; that the loss of him would be a devastation she might not be able to overcome. He gathered her back in another hug.

"He's okay, pal," he whispered against her ear.

"Because of you. You kept him safe for me, Murph, when I couldn't." She let out a long, shuddering sigh. "I'll never be able to repay you. If I'd lost him…" she left the thought unsaid. Patting her on the back, he stepped back from her, his hands grasping hers.

"I know," he answered, giving their joined hands a shake.

And he did. Only a blind man would have missed the attraction between the two, as it fairly crackled in the air when Steele had appeared that first time posing as Agent Ben Pierson. If it had only been a mutual attraction, there would still have been a chance, he'd believed, to make Laura see him as more than her partner and friend. But, it was somewhere around the time of the Five Nudes of Cairo case, he'd caught whiff of the symbiotic nature of the relationship between Laura and Steele. He hadn't wanted to believe it at the time, as every last bit of his being had been convinced Steele would disappear, taking with him any chance that Laura would risk believing in another man again.

Yet, therein had lay the rub. Steele brought Laura to life, while she gave him a life he never knew he craved. He dared her to trust her instincts about a man just one last time, while she defied him to become the man she knew he was capable of being. He wrested smiles and laughter from her lips, while she offered him a steady presence. He challenged her to loosen up, while she demanded he tighten down. But above all, there was a protectiveness of one another from the very start which had defied logic and the answer hadn't come to him until that night at the Federal Reserve as he'd watched Laura dangle from the beam and Steele's desperation to keep her safe: their mutual existence had at some point become inexorably intertwined. If he hadn't known it then, that day in the loft, as Steele willing laid his life on the line for Laura, and she was prepared to do the same for him, would have made it clear. For both of them, the thought of not having the other was unfathomable, and they'd do whatever it took never to see such a circumstance come to fruition.

"Take care of him, partner," he told her in parting, placing a chaste kiss upon her cheek.

"I will." He'd walked away towards the gate knowing the couple and their Agency were back in her capable hands again.

Remington had returned to work the day after his release from the hospital, proving himself to be as stubbornly obstinate as he'd ever claimed his wife to be. Laura had cajoled then put her proverbial foot down, all for naught, as he was dressed and ready to head to the office when she was. Within three hours of his arrival his rapidly disintegrating mood had chased Mildred from the office on sudden business and left Bernice threatening to take the rest of the day off. With a huff, Laura had plowed into his office where she'd found him pale, lying on the couch, and perversely panting he was fine. Only threats of him finding himself sleeping alone for the next fortnight had seen him dispatched home with the directive he was persona non grata in the office until the following Monday.

He'd spent the time well, attending to Agency needs from the comfort of their home, completing the property negotiations and scheduling the lot of them to close the following Friday, and with that piece of business wrapped up, turned his attention to vehicles. When Laura had returned home from work mid-afternoon on Friday, she'd had to park the Porsche street side, and walked, slack-jawed, up their driveway to where Remington was waiting, hands in his pockets, a smile of accomplishment plastered on his face.

"Let me guess," she began, "You've been shopping." Taking his hands from his pockets, he lay one on the small of her back, and guided her towards the first of the vehicles.

"I have, with a little help from Christos…" he gave a tug of his ear, "… and some friends. Each are ours, so long as they meet your exacting standards, Mrs. Steele..." With a flick of her eyes towards him, then away, she approached the first, running her hand along the gleaming, black fender of the 1987 Cadillac Seville limousine. Opening the rear door, she peered at the seating then directed a look back over her shoulder at him.

"Six seats?" she questioned.

"Necessary in my eyes. Mildred, you and I barely fit in our limo as it stands, uncomfortably at that. If we have a client or two with us, we can't expect them to squish against the door, now can we?" he proposed. The slight shrug of her shoulders he took as tacit agreement.

"No sunroof?"

"It's a vehicle for business, Laura, not for prom," he retorted snootily. She'd expected no less, and gave a short, silent laugh.

"Yet, unless I'm mistaken, this is a wine refrigerator…" she observed, as she opened and closed its door. He thought to make a sound argument that it was for client entertainment only, then merely chose to say nothing at all. Why bother? She'd already divined the reason. "No phone?"

"Monroe will have one installed if we should choose to purchase the limo," he answered. Unfolding herself from the limo, she shut the door then continued to the next two in line. She waggled a finger in their direction.

"For the Agency, I take it?" He nodded his agreement. She walked along, inspecting both vehicles: a black 1984 Toyota Celica GTS convertible and a silver 1984 Honda Prelude convertible.

"Should I even ask how much these will set us back?" she wondered aloud.

"A pittance. Both salvage, restored to their former glory, with plenty of parts on hand should we need them," he assured her.

"And for us?" she queried.

"A question I'll answer in a moment." He held out a hand to her. With a questioning look tossed his way, she grasped his hand, as he led her to the back of their property and the garage. Removing the garage door openers from his pocket, he pressed the open button on each, then watched as her eyes widened and her face lit up.

"You bought me a Jeep?" she asked, her voice rising half an octave in her excitement. Releasing his hand, she strode swiftly towards it. "I don't recall ever mentioning I'd always wanted one." His jaw slackened before his mouth opened and closed several times without a sound ever uttered, then watched as she ran a hand almost reverently across the cherry red hood. In fact, he'd purchased the 1987 Jeep Wrangler for himself, the car beside it for his besotted wife. But how could he deny her when she was looking at him with those brown eyes shimmering with excitement, that dimple deeply carved into her right cheek. With a last, longing look at the vehicle, he did the only thing he could.

"Ah, Mrs. Steele, what am I if not devoted to making your ever happiness a reality? Hmmmm?" Rolling her eyes heavenward, she dismissed his comment with a flip of her hand before returning her attention to the Jeep.

"No need for the sentimental mush, Mr. Steele," she told him as she climbed up to sit in the driver's seat. "I imagine I'll find it difficult to say no to you on nearly any matter in the near future…" His brows raised and a smile lit his face "… except, of course, the horse…" Both brows and lips fell at those words. "You did good…" She smiled over her shoulder again, then admired the buff colored dash and door trim, the butter soft, black leather seats. _We'll need seat covers or to carry towels in the Jeep if we don't want to scorch our bottoms on hot days,_ she noted to herself. _A place for the car phone, room for a baby seat._ Hopping out of vehicle, she crossed to where he was and clasped her hands at the back of his neck and drew him down for a steamy little kiss. He ran a tongue along his lips, tasting her on them, before smacking them together.

"If this is my reward, I'll have to be certain you have the newest model each year." She nibbled her lip at the Irish accent peppering his words. A hand streaked through his hair and down his neck, and she pulled him down for another sampling of his mouth.

"Every California girl I know has dreamed of owning a Jeep." He caught on to what was left unsaid and a smug grin lifted his lips at his fast insight.

"I see. But the ever-practical Miss Holt couldn't justify such a purchase." She nodded.

"Jeeps aren't what one would describe as inconspicuous," she confirmed. She released him to inspect the second new vehicle in their garage. "And neither is this beauty. A _Beamer_?" She drew the word out while casting an amused look in his direction.

"A BMW E30 M3, to be specific. It's said to be the best car on the European touring car race circuit, and I assure you, you'll not run across another like it here in LA." She gave him a speculative look.

"Do you really need _two_ rare cars?" Backed into a corner he was. Confess he'd actually intended the car for her, lose her good favor won for the Jeep.

"I wasn't in the market for a rare car for myself, it just happened a friend of a friend knew of someone in dire straits who needed cash fast." He smiled inwardly, for it was wholly the truth as he'd been in search of something special for Laura. "Gambling debts," he added in an undertone. The lines between her eyes appeared, the ones that said she was trying to determine if he was attempting to pull one over on her. With a slight lift of a single shoulder, she let it go, then walked around the car at length before climbing into the driver's seat and looking around.

"Well, however you came upon it, I have to say again: she's a beauty." The car featured a sleek black exterior, buckskin leather interior, and four bucket seats. There would be plenty of room for phone, car seat, and whatever gear Baby Steele would require to travel. "It suits you. Dark, sleek, eye catching." He shoved his hands in his pockets, blue eyes twinkling at the compliment. Getting out of the car, she closed the door, and regarded him with a tilt of her head. "And the Porsche? Do you have a buyer for it yet?"

"No, and I don't intend to find one," he answered, taking her hand and walking with her back to the front of the house.

" _Mr. Steele_ ," she drew his name out in warning. He held up his free hand in a gesture to stop.

"Hear me out, before you let that intoxicating temper get the better of you."

"Alright," she drawled. "But this had better be good." She poked an arm with her index finger, enunciating each word. "We had an agreement: The Porsche _goes_ once we find the right vehicles for our familial expansion."

"The Porsche will be reassigned as an Agency vehicle, kept safely tucked in the garage at Century Towers when not in service and designated for our use. As you are well aware, Weasel has access to any parts required for it should it face the same… challenges… the Rabbit did, which is _not_ the case for the Steele family vehicles." She mulled his proposal over. The Porsche was small, making it ideal for weaving in and out of traffic, not so flashy it would be immediately spotted by anyone they were tailing and its powerful little engine made it ideal for a pursuit. Considering those points, she allowed his decision to stand.

"Have you figured out how we are getting _three_ cars to the Agency so we might actually use our driveway?" He cast a disapproving look her way.

"Of course, I have." He glanced at his watch. "Fred will be meeting us at the Agency in forty minutes. Christos will drive one of the cars, you and I the others. Weasel will be meeting us here at the house in an hour and twenty minutes to pick up the old limo. He's already secured a new home for it, with an up and coming… _rapper_ …" he nearly sneered the word "who wishes to advertise his new status in life with such a vehicle. You'll need to retrieve the limo's title from the safe and have Mildred notarize your signature."

Thus, in the course of a week, the Remington Steele Agency's assets had grown to include three new residences, four new vehicles and one upgraded limo. Fred had been beyond tickled when shown the new limo, and both Laura and Remington would swear the man's chest had swelled from pride, and there was a bit more pep in his step when he examined it from bumper-to-bumper.

A new, nightly routine began in the Steele household: the pair stretched out for their evening talks, resumed once more with new commitment to keep them. Now, however, it was inevitable Laura's shirt would be parted or lifted so Remington could caress the skin beneath which their child grew, as he peppered her with questions about any changes she'd noticed. He'd finally shared with her his idea for a week-by-week retrospective of their child's growth, and the changes to her own body. She'd proclaimed the idea 'lovely', although the first couple of times he'd had her strip down to only her panties and lie prone while he studied her at length had left her blushing furiously, which of course, he found utterly beguiling.

Despite Remington's doctor imposed limitations in those first weeks after he'd returned home, they'd adjusted smoothly, for the most part. The Monday following his release, and following the disastrous Thursday in the office, Remington began easing himself back into his work routine: two hours a day turned into three, then three into five, until two weeks later he was back at it full time. The timing couldn't have been more perfect, as the contractor was putting the finishing touches on the office renovations and Remington had requested tweaks in many areas of the design. On the Saturday after dropping his father and Catherine at the airport, the Steele's made the dreaded trip, at least in Laura's eyes, in search of furnishings for her office. By the time they'd completed the shopping trip, she was more than pleased. A silver-grey desk topped with a white marble top veined in grey, matching coffee and end tables, white sofa and arm chairs, with dashes of red accents interspersed throughout. The design reminded her very much of their mutual tastes, and their home. Most importantly, her Correia lamp – the only thing traveling with her from her prior office – would fit in perfectly. She was in such a good mood after their finds, that she could only giggle like a school girl, much to her dismay, when he surreptitiously tested the top of the desk, to see if it could bear weight. She gave him a look that said 'I know what you're thinking, big fella. Not going to happen,' to which he'd sent her his own look that clearly said, 'I know you know what I'm thinking. And yes, it will, one day.'

As days had turned into a week, then two, there were times, too numerous to count, when Remington felt something was simply… off… where Laura was concerned, though he was never able to put a finger on it. There were moments when it seemed she was walking on the razor's edge of emotion, yet for the life of him, when he'd try to identify why he felt that was, she appeared placid as could be. There were times when he felt the most subtle of withdrawals, yet that too was contradicted by her willingness, her eagerness, to step into his embrace to share a sweet, blood stirring kiss. Then there were those times when he'd find her staring at him, with a look he'd never seen before… fear, anguish, thankfulness, deep sorrow, and a myriad of other emotions flashing so quickly through her eyes, he was never able to put a finger on what, precisely, it was she was feeling. Perhaps it was all in his imagination, then again, spurred on by the sudden tension in her slim frame that would awaken him as they slept, reminiscent of those days after Roselli held her captive, although never once did she wake screaming and terrified as she had then. But, yet another consideration, it might be she was just as… itchy… as he, and he was doing no more than attributing his own discontent to her, seeing something that didn't exist at all.

His instincts, it would turn out, were dead on the money. Unfortunately, for them both, that would only be revealed when his actions ended up creating a chasm in their relationship that it had taken a lifetime, it seemed, to close.


	34. Chapter 34: Old Ways

_**A/N: This chapter includes some Rated R bordering on NC-17 for one short chapter. If under 18, or if this offends you, please continue to the next chapter.**_

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Chapter 34: Old Ways

Remington and Laura had butted up against Bennett's orders of 'no vigorous activity' on several occasions. Each time she'd managed to extricate herself from his clutches before either was left with more than a bit of frustration. Until, that is, the Sunday which marked the twenty-sixth day of his recovery and the thirtieth day since last they'd made love. For a couple who normally indulged daily since they'd finally crossed that line, this status, to Remington, was completely unacceptable and regarded the orders preventing from them doing so as so much tomfoolery. To that end, he'd made a vow to himself the evening before, after yet another aborted attempt at lovemaking, to wake his wife in the most delicious of ways… which would also leave her so overwhelmed by her own desires, she'd be unable to stop nature from taking its course.

Thus, morning come, he woke spooned around her, and, with a certain impertinent piece of his anatomy providing a rigid reminder of his vow the night past, he pressed up on an elbow and trailed whisper light kisses down the side of her neck. Still sleeping soundly, she nevertheless hummed deep in her throat and pressed her slim body more tightly against his. Stealthy fingers slipped one button after another from their hole, then brushed away the fabric uncovering a pair of treasured breasts. As talented fingers circled, teased and plucked at a quickly puckered nipple, lips fastened over a freckled collarbone, tugging softly. Only when those hums turned to soft moans and her small body squirmed against his, did his free hand slide down beneath the elastic of her panties, parting damp flesh so a finger could caress a swollen nub. In no time at all, her breath came fast and her slender frame began to shudder as he eased her climax from her, even as a small hand reached backwards to tug at the waist of his pajama bottoms. Success so close at hand, he was all too willing, once the last tremble of her body ceased, to slip free of the constricting clothing, stifling a laugh as she turned to straddle him. Her eyes still dazed from sleep and desire, she leaned down and claimed his lips with her own, wrenching a deep sigh from him. A hand buried itself in her hair, while another stroked her back. Her delicate hands whispered over his shoulders, down his chest, pausing so her fingers could dance through the dark curls, tease at his nipples, before streaking further south to explore his abdomen, his hips automatically lifting beneath her at the sensual onslaught.

When her fingers found the puckered scar, that potent reminder of all she'd nearly lost, she came fully awake. Prying her lips from his, she took a deep, hissing breath and launched herself off him and the bed, fury pinkening her skin and fire burning in her brown eyes. That it was when her fingers came in contact with the angry scar when she rejected him, left him feeling suckered punched… and believing it was far more than doctor's orders preventing her from making love with him.

"Of all the low down, underhanded, manipulative things you have done in the past, this takes the cake!" she blasted him, whirling around, angrily rebuttoning the shirt still hanging from her shoulders. "Don't even try to—" Her intended rant stuttered to a stop when she saw the look of deep hurt on her husband's face, before it was swallowed up by a look of utter rage combined with… what?... disbelief? Before she knew what was happening, he stormed past her into their closet emerging again shucking on a pair of jeans.

"There you have it then," he told her glacially. She blinked hard at the tone, temper forgotten for a moment. Wasn't she the one he'd tried to pull a fast one on?

"There I have what?" she demanded to know, her confusion apparent in her voice. She watched as he strode to his dresser and yanked out a t-shirt. "What are you talking about?" she asked again, tossing up her hands. His eyes shot daggers at her, as he pulled the shirt over his head.

"You're a fine one to speak about flesh, Miss Holt, when clearly you're no different from all the rest of them," he accused.

"Why do I feel like I've suddenly come in during the wrong reel of a movie?" She threw up her hands when he stomped back into the closet to grab a pair of tennis shoes. "All the rest of _whom,_ Mr. Steele?"

"Bloody well claiming it was the doctor's orders preventing us from making love." He pointed a finger at her face before tossing his shoes on the floor in front of the bed, and sitting on the edge to put them on. "All those women who only wanted me for what I looked like… for the… the skills they'd heard I possessed. I saw you… the look on your face! You couldn't get away from me fast enough!" Her brows drew together trying to figure out what he was about, and when she put the puzzle pieces together, her temper exploded.

"Oh, for God's sake," she spit out. "This is about your damned vanity?!" His lips merely tightened and his jaw clenched so hard she had to wonder how he wasn't breaking his teeth. He viciously yanked at the laces on his shoes.

"Don't dare deny it. All was fine until you touched—"

"Your scar?" She demanded to know, marching up to him until she stood right before him as he held his silence, belligerently. "You're right! But not because of what it looks like you… you… self-centered ass!" She plunked her fists on her hips, as her emotions continued to surge. Her use of the last word directed at him and the acerbity with which it was said stunned him. "You think I don't find you as desirable as I ever have? Well, you're wrong." She said with a poke of finger to chest, forcing him to lean back a bit. "I do! You think I don't want to make love with you?" Another poke, this time making him lean back a little further. "Well, you're wrong there, too! I do! So much so that it hurts. And in case you're forgetting, _Mr. Steele,"_ she drew out his name angrily, this stab of her finger only avoided when he lay back on his elbows, "I'm pregnant, my hormones are raging out of control, and it's taken every _ounce_ of that 'will of steel' you spoke of _not_ to jump you!" She whirled away from him and started to stride across the room. An astonished look painted Remington's face. He couldn't recall a time he'd ever seen her this livid.

"Laura, I—" he tried, only for her to whirl around and cut him off.

"I think you've said enough, don't you?" She demanded to know. His instinct for self-preservation advised she may well be right. "'No different than all the rest of them,'" she angrily muttered what he'd said previously, word for word, while walking away from him. "Of all the…" She spun on her foot again and pointed a finger at his right side. "That scar you're so insecure about? Do you want to know if it's what made me stop? You're damned right it is," she said, throwing an arm upward. "It's a vivid reminder that you were willing to give your life to keep me… our _child_ … safe! It's a reminder," she choked on the word, leading him to sit back up, "Of you, laying on my lap, your bl…" she hissed in a breath of air "… blood all over me, as you tried to say your goo-…" a sob broke past her lips, and she grabbed at her middle "… goodbyes to me." She drew in a harsh, staggered breath, as the first of the tears made its way past the rim of an eye. Guilt tied his stomach in knots, and he took to his feet, only to find hand, palm forward, held in his direction. "Don't!" she barked.

"Lau—"

"I said _no_! You lost the right to comfort me when you lumped me in with your bevy of bimbos," she shouted. He held up his hands in compliance, and sat back down on the side of the bed, rubbing at his face with his hand. "You were there but you weren't," she reminded him, her voice cracking. "You don't remember any of it, but I remember it all! _I_ _was the one_ holding you when you _stopped breathing_. _I was the one_ who watched as the EMT's used the defibrillator on you. _I was the one_ sitting at your bedside when you…" she sucked in another heaving breath "…when you flatlined. _I was the one_ who watched your body… arch… arching off the bed as they shocked your heart repeatedly." She swiped viciously at the tears flowing freely now. "You think I don't want you?" She accused again. "Well, you're wrong! I want you here with me badly enough that I'll do whatever it takes, including denying us _both,_ if that assures me you'll stay healthy… that you'll _be here._ "

With those final words, chin held high, she stalked towards bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind her, then, knowing the ease with which her partner and husband could pick the lock, shoved the chair from her vanity up under the doorknob for good measure. Cranking up the shower faucet to full blast, to mask what was to come, she stripped off his shirt and her panties, then dove beneath the spray of water, closing the shower door behind her. The memories of those awful moments and days after Remington was shot assailed her, and she finally allowed to happen what she denied herself then: covering her mouth with a hand to muffle the sounds, she allowed herself to cry unrestrained.

To Remington's credit, as soon as Laura had bolted from the room, he'd given chase, reaching the door as it slammed shut. He tested the knob and found it, not surprisingly, locked. At the sound of Laura crying over the pat-pat-pat of the water from the shower hitting the tiled floor, his heart dropped to his toes. He couldn't recall a time she'd ever really given it a go, at least as she was now. Not after her kidnapping, when she leaked a few anguished tears here and there during their conversation by the Androkus pool. Not even after Veckmer blew up her home, at least not to this degree, harsh sobs echoing off the walls of the room beyond whereas then she'd contained herself to muffled sniffs and cries. To know he was the cause for it now? He knocked, only to be met with silence. A second knock was met with the same results. Bracing himself with an arm against the door, he dragged a hand through his hair.

"Laura…" Only the sounds of her crying reached him. Standing erect, he scrubbed at his face with his hand, trying to decide his next move. There wasn't a doubt in his mind that he'd bodged this one and bodged it good. But he couldn't very well make things right when she'd effectively sealed herself off from him, physically as well as emotionally. The first could be easily solved with a pick kept handily in his dresser drawer. But to what end? He ran through every possibility in his mind, then settled on the one thing which had always won her absolution and brought them some peace.

"Laura… I'm sorry."

In the shower, Laura turned bodily away from the door, resting her forehead against the wall, clamping her hand more firmly over her mouth, ignoring his plea for forgiveness. She was having a difficult enough time bringing into check her own precarious emotions, and didn't have it in her to mediate his as well. What she needed was time… distance… solitude, so she could set herself right again. Outside the door, he pressed two fingers to his lips while shoving his other hand in his pocket and rocking back on his heels. With a sigh of defeat, he pressed his hand against the door.

"When you're ready, I'll have breakfast ready and waiting…" When that, as well, received no response, with another stroke of his hand through his hair, he left the room and journeyed downstairs to his kitchen.

The minutes ticked by, and eventually the torrent of tears slowed to a slow leak, then with a hiccup, with formulation of a plan and she regained control. Calculating how long it would take Remington to cook breakfast, she rushed through her shower. Within five minutes she was dried off, hair pulled back into ponytail and had thrown on a pair of running shorts and one of Remington's t-shirts. After tossing a change of clothes and shoes into her gym bag, she quietly crept down the stairs, grabbed her car keys from credenza and slipped out the side door in her office.

Remington was oblivious to her movements until he heard the roar of the Jeep's engine. Dropping the spatula he held in hand onto the counter, and quickly removing the omelet pan from the burner, he reached the front door just in time to watch the Jeep turn right out of the driveway and disappear. Laura, running. He hadn't seen that coming at all.

And there was only one thing that could be said for it…

"Bloody hell."

Slamming the front door behind him as he went back inside the house, he returned to the kitchen where he tossed muffins, fresh fruit and omelets into the garbage. Twenty minutes later, showered, changed and with a gym bag of his own slung over his shoulder, he followed his wife's lead and departed the house. If she thought he was going to sit about the house all afternoon stewing about her return, she was wrong. He'd spent far too much time over the years waiting out Laura Holt, chasing her even, in his opinion, and that pattern would stop here and now.


	35. Chapter 35: Lying in Deeds

Chapter 34: Lying in Deeds

It had been a nice thought, at least. Remington had to give himself that. Foolish as it had turned out to be, it had seemed remarkably wise at the time. Leaving. Letting Laura find the house empty when she arrived home. A bit of her own medicine, so to speak.

Of course, much like his ploy this morning, his plans on the day hadn't precisely worked out either. He'd gone to the polo field where the horse his father had given him was stabled, to make its acquaintance – he'd owned it near on a month and hadn't even seen it yet, if one could believe that! – and with thought of putting it through some paces to see how it handled. Thus, he'd requested the horse be saddled and brought to the paddock while he changed into white riding breeches, white polo and sleek, black Dublin River riding boots. Ah, what a beauty the gelding was! He fairly preened at the thought of riding the mount, as they complemented one another almost as much as he and Laura did. The grey gelding measured 15.6 hands, and was a true black beauty excepting his grey tail and white socks. With his long, muscled neck, prominent withers, strong shoulders, short back, well sprung ribs and outstanding quarters, he'd certainly add to Remington's game, not detract from it. He immediately dubbed the horse Ciardha, as Argentinian the horse might be, but his rider was Irish through-and-through where it mattered most, in his heart.

It was only when his foot was in the stirrup that the second thoughts came, accompanied the vision of Laura choking back sobs and her final words to him that morning echoing in his ears.

* * *

" _ **I want you here with me badly enough that I'll do whatever it takes, including denying us**_ _ **both**_ _ **, if that assures me you'll stay healthy… that you'll**_ _ **be here**_ _ **."**_

* * *

He paused midway in his swing up onto the horse, then lowered himself back to the ground, removing his foot from the stirrup, as logic kicked in and made note that riding a horse most certainly qualified as 'vigorous physical activity.' He cursed beneath his breath at that, then cursed again when his fertile imagination proposed two possible ends to this folly. First, the overexertion resulted in a setback, which would mean seeing _that_ look upon Laura's face again, not to mention an extension of that infernal, utterly unacceptable moratorium on their love life, in which case they might both be driven mad… or to the brink of divorce. Or, potentially even worse, he was made uncomfortable enough to tip his wife off that he'd been disobeying orders, for which she'd undoubtedly box his ears verbally for months to come, reminding him incessantly of his inability to follow the simplest of orders when it came to his health. With a grimace and a rub at the back of his neck, he decided neither option was palatable.

"Another day, Ciardha, old boy," he muttered, patting the horse on his flank, before directing the stable boy to return the horse to his stall.

Changed into street clothes once more, Remington considered a trip to the Academy and indulging in a bit of fencing. An idea pitched out the window, of course, when he recognized it, as well, was disqualified by the unpalatable 'vigorous activity' rule. The boxing gym, then. No, that, too, was verboten. A game of billiards and a couple of drinks held no appeal. A movie then, for it seemed it was all there was left. At least there he found some luck: a double feature of Orson Welles' works _Citizen Kane_ and _The Third Man._ He settled himself in the cool, dark theater, prepared to allow the magic of the cinema to sweep his worries away.

The problem was, as he'd sat there in the darkened theater, he failed, epically at that, to shove Laura and their fight that morning out of his thoughts for even a scant second. Instead it had played on repeat in his head, often accompanied by guilt giving him a swift kick in the shin, when disdain for his actions wasn't given equal treatment to his arse. To accompany that mental self-flogging? Laura's voice, repeating in a continual loop, 'What were you _thinking_?'

Truth of the matter was he hadn't been thinking, not at all. The blood circulation required for such an act had retreated to the southerly portions of his body, fueling his heart and… well, a particularly demanding part of his anatomy. He missed their physical relationship… desperately. If he'd thought the first four years longing for her, wanting her, were difficult, this was bloody well torture. It was one thing to have imagined what it would feel like to have her skin pressed to his, to feel her writhing beneath him, but quite another to _know._ To know the feeling of her soft breath against his skin as her lips trailed over his body, leaving sparks in their wake. To know the touch of her small hands feathering over his shoulders, his back, his bum, making him arch involuntarily into her hands. To know how she'd whisper his name as her body wakened under his ministrations, soft moans of delight as she neared her peak. To see that confident, impish sparkle in her eyes, and to know she knew she was a woman not only desired, but terribly, deeply loved. To know the feeling of his body cradled within her hot, wet warmth, her legs tightening around his body to keep him near. To know he could paint her body with all the feelings he had for her, and that _she_ knew this was not just sex, just flesh, never between them: it was truly love making. He missed it. He craved it. He needed it. He needed _her_ and that need was consuming his every thought.

No, he hadn't been thinking, not at all, at least not past that driving need. If he had, he would have realized such a ploy, even had it worked according to plan, would have backfired in the end. Had they made love, Laura would be feeling more manipulated, more… violated… than she was right now. He'd waged a campaign on her when she was at her most vulnerable, intentionally so. She'd see it as a betrayal of her trust in him, a step back to his old days when he'd rarely played it straight.

* * *

" _ **Because you're always looking for an angle here, an**_ _ **edge there**_ _ **."**_

* * *

Her words from so long ago, echoed in his mind now. He could still see the hurt, the fury which had painted her countenance when she'd said them then, and imagined she felt much the same now. _No, far worse_ , he amended. Then, she was constantly on her guard for his latest scheme, latest ploy, latest gambit. Oh, they still wounded, but at least she wasn't thoroughly blindsided. She expected more of him now, damn well deserved more from him now. That thought set him to gnawing at his thumbnail, there in the theater, as he wondered how long it would take her to draw parallels between the fiasco in Cannes, with Clarissa, and the warnings she'd given him then.

* * *

 _ **"I think it was something to the effect that I can't get it through my head that… "**_

 _ **"I count in all this!"**_

* * *

 _ **"For some cock-eyed reason, I expected less of you!"**_

 _ **"Less? Less, less, less,**_ _ **what**_ _ **?"**_

 _ **"Less trickery, less deceit, less of everything that makes me doubt your feelings for me."**_

* * *

Those memories were enough to send him scrambling to his feet and out of the auditorium. _A bloody imbecile, that's what you are, Steele, ole boy,_ he chastised himself. _She damned well ended you after that fiasco in Cannes, gave you one last chance to get it right after your idiocy with Clarissa. And how to do you repay her? You attempt to trick her, run a fast one around her! Deeds, old sport, deeds._

His revised plan began at the department store where Laura had picked up her new intimate apparel a few weeks before. Lingerie? _Begging for your early demise if you do that, Steele._ A piece of jewelry? No. He preferred to reserve gifts of such a nature to mark monumental moments in their relationship, as had become somewhat of a tradition. He was left flummoxed, and while he thought through his options wandered upstairs to the children's floor. There as he browsed the infant's department, he vividly recalled Laura's words nearly a month before.

* * *

" _ **Lots of creams, off whites, just the slightest splash of color. Your sketches framed and hanging on the wall near the crib. Delicate, handknit throws, comforters trimmed with Irish lace."**_

* * *

The knit blankets crafted so finely they resembled the delicacy of crepe were too much to resist, as were the little sleepers which were so miniscule in size they didn't even extend the length of his arm from wrist to elbow. A baby book selected with great care. Purchases made, a stop by Tiffany's, the florist, his favorite grocery, then back to Tiffany's again. Finally, he returned home so that he might begin to orchestrate a magical evening, while contemplating how he'd added insult to injury by 'lumping her in with his bevy of bimbos'. Three hours later he set the oven on low, took a final, approving look at the main living area of their home, and departed to search for his still missing partner and wife.

He said a silent prayer that the evening he'd prepared, and the conversation he hoped to have before they arrived home, would at least begin to make amends for that morning.

* * *

It was official. The man had at last driven her stark raving mad. It was the only answer that could account for how she'd spent most of her day. Shopping. She, Laura Holt Steele. Shopping. _Voluntarily_. To think that her sister and mother would be proud that she'd at last employed such a …. womanly… way to cope with the upheaval at home only made it all the more distasteful.

When Laura had slipped from the house that morning, she'd considered going to the office, cracking open some files and digging herself out from under the mountain of paperwork which had collected during her absence. Knowing the office would likely be the first place Remington looked, if he came in search, had promptly ixnayed that idea. She pondered absconding to Bernice's, but tossed that idea aside as well, as the last thing she wanted to do at the moment was air their dirty laundry with anyone who worked with them. There had been enough knowing looks from Bernice and Mildred throughout the prior week, as Remington and she had fussed and sniped at one another. Apparently, gal-to-gal chat had now extended to Bernice, Laura accurately surmised, as the two women had fully bonded over the escalating tempers of both their bosses. Which, of course, also rendered Mildred a non-viable escape route. She'd even weighed the idea of seeking refuge at Frances and Donald's, but within a millisecond had considered dismissed that as so much folly. Frances would spend the entire day alternating between coddling her and pumping her for information. She could only imagine the Abigail inspired platitude that might pass Frances's lips if Laura shared the source of her irritation with Remington.

 _He tried to trick me into having sex with him, Frances._

 _Now, Laura, you know it's so much more difficult for men to go without… physical relations… than it is for us women._

At which point, Laura had absolutely not a single doubt, she'd have to put her hands around her sister's throat and squeeze. She was fairly certain a jury of _her_ peers – anyone who hadn't grown up during the days of _Leave it to Beaver_ or earlier – would absolve her by citing justifiable homicide. But two things played in Frances's favor in that regard. First, she rather enjoyed the improved relationship they'd cultivated over the last year. Second, and weighing most heavily in her sister's favor: it was Remington's neck she currently wanted between her hands.

She hadn't even realized how late they'd slept until she was in the Jeep and driving away. Thankfully, the morning sickness had finally abated, only to be replaced, instead, by a gnawing hunger that had been driving her to snack throughout the day. Approaching noon, it was no wonder her stomach was demanding to be mollified. _I can eat at the pier, then go for a run_ , she thought to herself with a sharp nod of her head. But a run at high noon on an unseasonably hot spring day held no appeal at the moment, especially since Venice Beach was one of her known escapes. She needed someplace… unexpected… preferably cool, which also offered food and some form of distraction.

Which was how she ended up spending several hours at the Beverly Center, strolling the multiple floors, browsing through dozens of stores and eating her fill, whenever the mood struck, at the food court. With the dogged determination for which she was known, she shoved aside all thoughts of the morning – time enough to let her mind to address that when she was running later. Instead, she concentrated on relaxing while putting her credit card to use in a way she had never done before. By the time she departed the mall some five plus hours later, she was laden down with shopping bags, chock full with, she fervently prayed, a maternity wardrobe expansive enough to last throughout her pregnancy so she'd not have to step foot into another store.

She arrived at the beach when the sun sat low on the horizon, and a light breeze helped cool the air. Only as she ran the strip of beach back-and-forth, back-and-forth while working up a cleansing sweat did she set her mind free to address morning events. By the time she completed her cool off and sat down on the sands to consider the Pacific Ocean, she was both exhausted and far more at peace than she had been when she arrived. Pulling her legs up against her body, she rested her chin on her knees, while a hand absently picked up one handful of sand after another, letting it slowly pour free. She couldn't say how long she sat there before she sensed his presence behind her, caught his scent mingling with the salt air. But there he was.

Remington had arrived at the beach while it still remained Laura-less. Running, he knew, sorting out her thoughts. So, he had waited in his car to allow her the time, long after she came into his view, cooled off, then sat in pensive reflection. He knew when she absently reached for that first handful of sand, that she'd come to some form of resolution, and could only pray it was in his favor. Removing socks and shoes and rolling up his jeans, he crossed parking lot and beach to stand behind her, unsure how his presence would be received.

"I'm not going to bite, you know," she spoke, by way of invitation that he could join her. Approaching her, he sat down carefully assuring there was distance between him, still uncertain where he stood.

"It's not your teeth which give me concern," he noted, as he drew a leg up and rested an arm across a knee. The comment earned a sideways glance, a shake of a head and a quiet snort of dry laughter.

"No weapons," she answered lightly, lifting her hands and dropping them, as if to prove it.

"Ah, but your greatest weapon has always been your mind, and that I can't see," he countered, matching her tone. He grew serious, laying earnest eyes upon her. "Laura, I'm sorry. I was a bloody ass, a buggering wanker, an utter idiot for both what I did… and said."

"You were, all of those things, and I believe you're sorry," she answered pensively, giving no clue where her thoughts were at, at all.

"But…"

"But nothing," she answered quietly, picking up another handful of sand. "Not really…" Silence stretched out between them, leading him to lift a hand to mouth and worry a thumb. Lessons of the past: Silence was normally followed by personal disaster. "But…" she finally breached, "I'm… Confused… Hurt… Angry with you…" She drew in a deep breath, and dared to lay her cheek against her knees to look at him, "… Angry with myself." The shock at the last showed clearly on his face.

"Angry with yourself? Why ever would you be that? I was the one—"

"Wanting you has never been an issue," she interrupted, speaking slowly, still just as quietly she'd been, but turning her head to look out over the water again. "I have wanted you since that first day you walked into the Agency. I spent years, keeping you at arm's length, listing all the reasons I couldn't… shouldn't… be with you, claiming they were about me… which they were… but at the same time knowing I was also saying they were about you. After what you said, I have to wonder… Does some part of you, at least on some level, honestly believe that if you didn't look like you do, I wouldn't want to be with you? That absent your looks, I wouldn't have gotten past all those couldn't and shouldn'ts? Because if you do, even in the smallest measurement, then I'm really no better than the rest of them, am I?"

"I was being a petulant prig, nothing more," he refuted.

"A comment like that is not without basis, Mr. Steele," she sighed. "The thought is there, lingering somewhere, to be retrieved so quickly."

"And if that's so, it's a reflection of my own insecurities, nothing to do with you," he decried, taking to his feet and rubbing an anxious hand across his face before he paced away from her. "I spent years exploiting how I look to get what I wanted, which was generally a woman warming my bed for an hour or two, although here and there to get myself out of a tight squeeze or to find some place decent to kip for the night, for a meal. I'd been trained by Daniel's hand on the art of the seduction con, I've told you that. I may have only employed those… skills… in that vein once, but I certainly used those very same skills to suit my needs. And look what it got me." He turned to face her. "Two women of more than a passing acquaintance. One, who tried not only to kill me twice, but also tried to kill my wife and child. Another who proclaimed herself to me, then blackmailed me to do her bidding before she willingly tried to serve you up to Roselli. Do you think either of them, or half the women I took to my bed, even, would find me as attractive today as they would have just a month ago?"

"Yes, I do," she answered simply, honestly. He shoved his hands in his pockets, and looked heavenward, shaking his head and laughing softly.

"Then how can you even question if my equating you with them was nothing more than my own insecurities speaking, eh?" He returned to sit next to her, slightly closer this time, but still with space dividing them. " _You_ are nothing like them. From the beginning, you saw the man beneath the surface, whereas few others had cared to look, and then when they did, it was only to exploit him for their own gain." She stared at him for a long moment, then began to shake her head, the movement becoming more vigorous as it went along. White hot anger flashed through her, propelling her to her feet. She strode several feet away from him before turning back around, arms crossing protectively over her body.

"Then tell me why," she demanded. "Why would you use those very skills to exploit me, to get what you wanted from me, if I'm not like the rest of them? Did you even stop to think how I would feel afterwards, if you had succeeded? How I would be left to feel if you didn't? Even worse, if something had happened to you?"

"Feeling is more apt a word," he corrected, taking to his feet again. "I feel like a starving man left for four years to peer through a window upon the finest feast he'd ever seen, always in sight but never in reach, only suddenly to be invited inside to dine to my content for months on end, before being pitched out onto those streets, left to starve again," he railed, his frustration peppering each word. "I feel like a man who adores his wife to the point of utter distraction, but can't _show_ her what she means to him!"

"I don't need you to make love to me to know how you _feel_ ," she retorted. "Deeds," she threw out her arms towards him, before she began to stalk back and forth. "Isn't that what you're always saying to me? Let's set aside the fact you were willing to give your life for me, for our child. You changed your name, who you were, what you were for me. You waited me out for four years. You _found_ me, and stood by me in the aftermath of my kidnapping. When you found your father, this incredible legacy that you could have claimed for yourself, you never once questioned coming home to LA with me. Your actions tell me all the time how you feel, until you pull something like this and leave me questioning all the rest!"

"I miss you, Laura," he rasped, desperately. She threw up her hands.

"And I _miss you_ , as I said this morning. Trust me, Remington, the minute Bennett gives you the okay, I have every intention of locking us behind closed doors for a day, if not two. Think of this as a practice run for after the baby comes, if that's what you need to do, but this," she swung hand out, "What happened this morning, can't happen! I've been lied to _in deed_ by every man of any importance to me: my father, Wilson, _you_. It took a leap of faith on my part that you and I could do this: marriage, home, family! Every time you do something like this, it makes me doubt myself, doubt my decision and if it keeps happening it _will_ drive us apart at some point!" She paused to take a deep breath and let it out slowly, while lifting a pair of fingers to rub at her brow. When she spoke again, her voice was much softer. "I don't want that to happen. I _want this._ I _want you_. Even it still scares the hell out of me to admit it." It was the words he'd been waiting to hear, that they were going to be okay. Stepping to her, he cupped her face in his hands, and drew her up so his lips could do no more than touch hers before he gathered her in his embrace.

"I'm sorry," he said again, closing his eyes when her arms wrapped around him.

"You don't have to keep repeating it," she told him, pulling back, then poking a finger at his chest. "But I want your word, Remington: The next time you get a hair brained idea like the stunt this morning, you'll remember the cost may be far more than you're willing to pay." Nodding, he gathered her back to him.

"I give you my word." With a press of his cheek to the side of her head," he released her. "Come home? I've a bit more apology waiting for you there."

"You didn't need to do that," she admonished lightly, walking towards the parking lot when he placed his hand on the small of her back.

"And yet I have. So, let's just enjoy it, eh?"

"Alright," she agreed, lifting her chin for another kiss, this one in parting.

That he'd been honest with her, had taken responsibility for his actions, had been genuinely contrite, has gone a long way in restoring her faith in them and, by consequence, her mood. Her mood had brightened enough, in fact, that as they'd merged onto the highway towards home, she gunned the engine to her Jeep, knowing that a crooked smile had just lifted his lips. Pushing down on the gas pedal firmly, the race was on.

(TBC)

* * *

 _ **A/N: We are coming towards the close of Steele in Wonderland, so I am going to do what I have on occasion: Let the readers decide part of what is coming up. Should they return to Ashford for a weekend, a first anniversary trip of a sort? Should Laura plan an unexpected trip for Remington? Do you want to know what exactly it is Remington purchased for Laura at Tiffany's? Want an up close and personal bit of steam after Bennett releases Remington from his restrictions? I'll consider any suggestion, then work with whatever fits best with the upcoming ending.**_

 _ **Be sure to take the time to read tvnerdgirl's new story under the "M" rating. I am hearing good things about it :)**_

 _ **Happy Memorial's Day one and all - hope you enjoy time with family and friends.**_


	36. Chapter 36: Free

_**A/N: This chapter contains NC-17 material. If uncomfortable with such subject matter or under 18 years of age, please continue to Chapter 37.**_

* * *

Chapter 36: Free

Wednesday, June 17, 1987

Laura sat back in her desk chair, feet reclined on the corner of the desk, rubbing her tummy while biding her time before leaving the office for the day. Remington had departed with Brandon to test the security system at a large pharmaceutical manufacturer they'd taken on after a series of incidents in which a drug in testing stage seemed to continually take feet and walk out the door, placing at risk the company's substantial financial investment and future revenues, should a competing company find the drug in their possession. Once the system was given the all-clear, her husband and partner was due back in the office for a one o'clock meeting with new client – or so he thought, for there was no such creature to be found. Instead, when he arrived Bernice would inform him Laura had gone home for the day. As watchful as he'd become as her pregnancy progressed, there was not a single doubt he'd race home to find out what had sent her home early.

The answer to that was the surprise she'd carefully planned for him. They'd originally been scheduled to depart for Greece on Sunday the twenty-first for not only Roselli's trial, but also to celebrate their first anniversary where they'd been wed: in Oia. But, she'd made a few changes to those plans. They'd depart the following morning for Ireland where they'd stay at Ashford Castle until Sunday morning, where a second surprise awaited him. Greece would yet hold more surprises in store for him. His father and Catherine would arrive on Sunday evening so Thomas might celebrate his son's first anniversary with him… as would Mildred, in part to make up for her missing their wedding in Greece, but even more so because she was Remington's 'other mother.' She smiled to herself now, thinking it would take Remington considerable planning to outdo her, as he'd done on every occasion and holiday previously, thus far…. Except one.

On one Friday night in mid-May, they'd departed the office for dinner… or so he'd believed. Instead, she'd driven them straight to the heliport where a 'whirly-bird' was waiting ready and fueled… and at their disposal all weekend. She'd reserved them a private villa on Catalina, the same place they were to have gone to 'cross that line' before his attempts to wed Clarissa had turned their worlds on end. She couldn't help the wide, dimpled smile that lit up her face as Remington had looked once, twice… three times, from her, to the 'copter, then back to her again. It had been a wonderfully romantic weekend: private, catered, breakfasts and dinners; long walks on the beach; frolicking in the water and dancing under the stars. All peppered with rounds of making love, of course, leaving them breathless and content.

He'd understood what the trip conveyed without her ever giving voice to the words: While May 10, 1986 would never be, in her eyes, the day they married, it had marked a pivotal turning point for them. Had his foolishness not lead to a series of disastrous events, there was every chance that instead of preparing to celebrate their first wedding anniversary, instead of eagerly anticipating their first child, that they would still be dancing around 'those words' and the future each had dreamed about. Even more importantly, the trip announced with absolute finality, that he'd been truly forgiven for his actions the year prior, and the day would never be spoken of with malice again. On their final evening there, he gave her his own wordless answer to her statement, as they stood, wrapped in one another's arms, the waves lapping gently at their calves, when he'd cupped her face in his hands, his eyes bright with emotion, and had drawn her lips to his for a kiss so tender, poignant, it had left her hands trembling on his waist in the aftermath.

Yes, she felt fairly confident she'd finally, truly surprised him… had outdone one of his surprises for her.

It hadn't been easy, for on the night they'd returned home from Venice Beach, she'd been stunned speechless, at first, by the display she'd walked into. Dozens upon dozens of white tulips, displayed on every flat surface on the bottom floor of the house. Leaning down at the credenza to smell one, she smiled to herself: the flower of seeking forgiveness. Dropping her purse next to the vase, she started in surprise when Remington bussed her cheek as she stood.

"Go. Shower," he suggested. "I need fifteen minutes or so."

"Alright," she agreed.

Upstairs, she was greeted by roses. A dozen long stems in a vase sitting on both bedside tables, both dressers, on either side of the fireplace mantle, the coffee table in their sitting area, and a final arrangement on the bathroom counter. With another smile, she stripped down and stepped into the shower. _The man does know how to put on a display of contrition, I'll give him that,_ she acknowledged to herself with a laugh. Leaving her hair wet and hanging in ringlets, she dressed in pair of shorts that weren't too snug at the waist and one of his shirts, for comfort's sake, then came to a stop as she saw Remington must have slipped into their bedroom during her absence, for on the bed set a stack of items which hadn't been there only fifteen minutes before. She fingered the delicate throws, and, much like her husband earlier, marveled over the tiny sleepers. When she reached the baby book, hidden beneath the pile, she sat on the edge of the bed and fingered throughout it. She decided to take it with her as she went downstairs to join her husband.

The canard au vin rouge had been as delicious as it was sweetly reminiscent of the first time he'd ever made dinner for her, even if it had gone to waste when a case called. The dancing after dinner had been… mesmerizing. But it was when they were in bed and he rolled first away from her then back to lay two small packages on her stomach, that she was reminded, all over again, why she had been unable _not_ to fall in love with the gentle, sentimental man beside her, who was currently leaning pressed up on an elbow, head resting in hand, as his bright blue eyes twinkled down at her. She nibbled at her lip before easing the lid off the first box, then let out a long, slow breath.

"It's beautiful, Remington. But for a man who believes in hedging his bets, aren't you going all in before the final card is dealt?"

"Open the next, love," he prodded. She did and then laughed. "You ought to know, I always plan for all contingencies."

The silver rattles he'd purchased from Tiffany's, one engraved with 'Olivia' and the other with 'Holt' were safely tucked back into their boxes and stored in her bedside table where they still resided now.

Her attention was fully diverted by the fluttering movement in her womb, where the baby seemed to move from one side to the other. At twenty-one weeks and three days, concealing her nicely rounded, distended belly, was no longer an option, not that it mattered to her. She was as captivated by the changes in her body as their child grew as Remington himself was. A week earlier, she'd felt their child's first movement, as the couple was lying in bed talking. Her eyes had suddenly widened, her hand moved to cover his where it lay on her abdomen and she stared at her stomach with unconcealed fascination.

"What? What is it?" he demanded to know, alarm threading through his voice.

"The baby. It moved," she said with awe. His face lit up then the smile slowly faded.

"I didn't feel a thing," he said with abject disappointment. He mulled that for long seconds, then asked, "What did it feel like?" Tilting her head and staring at her stomach she searched for the right words, knowing if she gave them to him, his vivid imagination would be able to paint the portrait.

"Like holding a butterfly in your hand, and feeling the flapping of its wings against your fingers. Faint, fluttery, fast." He closed his eyes, envisioned it, a smile lifting his lips again.

Two days later he'd gifted her with a small sketch of his hand with a butterfly alit on his palm. He'd entitled it 'First Movement' and had scrawled that night's date below.

The concerns Remington had given voice to, about her reaction to her enlarged frame the further along the pregnancy went or that she'd believed he'd desire her less as her body rounded with their child, were proven to be all for naught. Their love life was as active as it had been since that first night at Ashford Castle. Starting with the day, four days following Remington's attempts to trick her into making love, when Bennett had at last released the restriction on 'no vigorous activity.' Laura remained behind at the Agency while he attended his appointment, she antsy and… itchy, and making sure the staff remained busy and on demand through lunch. When he sailed into her office at twelve-fifty, closed the door and leaned against it, hands shoved in his pockets, and gave her a heated look accompanied by a lascivious wink, she promptly picked up the handset on her phone and called Bernice.

"Bernice, send the phones to the answering service and let everyone know I'd like them in my office for our morning meeting. Please come as well," she told her briskly, then disconnected the line.

"A _meeting,_ Mrs. Steele?" he drawled the question, with no little disdain. "What happened to locking us behind closed doors, hmmm?"

"All in due time, Mr. Steele," she answered, evasively, as she stood and pressed a kiss to his lips, then took her customary seat for morning meetings: perched on the corner of her desk. "Care to join me?" she inquired, indicating her chair where he usually sat. She focused on squelching the smile that wanted to play across her lips at his obvious sulk.

"Of course," he agreed, unbuttoning his jacket, and sitting, carelessly resting an ankle against bent knee. "I can't imagine a thing I rather be doing."

Brandon, Zack, Marvin, Mildred and Bernice trickle into the office and took their seats on the sofa and two remaining chairs.

"Alright. Brandon, Zack, Marvin, Mildred – I've spent a good deal of time with each of you this morning, reviewing open cases, gathering details on closed ones, providing recommendations and observations. I'll fill Mr. Steele in on all of it after the meeting concludes. Do any of you have any outstanding questions? Wish to add anything to what we've already discussed?" Four heads shook in the negative. "In that case, Mr. Steele and I have arranged for the five of you to have lunch, on us, at Chez Rives this afternoon." Mildred and Bernice exchanged thrilled smiles at the news. "Claude is expecting you, even as we speak. This luncheon is not only a thank you to Bernice and Mildred for holding down the fort in our absence, but to welcome each of you…" she looked from intern-to-intern, "… aboard. We hope you'll use the time to get to know one another better, as one of the reasons this Agency has been so successful is because Mr. Steele, Mildred and I are as much family as we are employers and employee. That's all."

"Do you want the answering service to return the phone to the office?" Bernice asked, as everyone left the office, preparing to leave for the swank restaurant.

"No, leave them with the service. After I fill Mr. Steele in on what I discussed with Mildred and the interns this morning, we'll man the reception area," Laura directed.

"Should we be expecting a magnum of champagne delivered to our table?" Bernice inquired, cheekily. Laura smirked at her friend and secretary.

"Afraid not," she slanted her eyes at Remington, who gave her a smug look in return. "The only person Mr. Steele will be sending magnums of champagne to these days is me." She returned her focus to Bernice. "But I suspect you might find a couple bottles of fine wine are included in the meal."

"Have I mentioned how glad I am that I came back to work here?" With a wag of her fingers, she turned to leave. "See you after lunch." Bernice poked her head back into the room. "And don't do anything I wouldn't do," she winked, then departed for good.

"The magnum of champagne did the trick, eh?" He flashed her a conceited grin.

"It made a lasting impression on Bernice, at least," she answered dryly, a smile twitching at her lips. "Unless I'm mistaken, it took your four years and several _dozen_ more bottles of champagne before you got what you hoped to get that evening." He comically slapped his hand over heart.

"You're a cruel woman, Mrs. Steele, to remind me of such a torturous time." He paused for a heartbeat, planting cheek against a knuckled fist held up by elbow propped on armrest. "Do you really expect us to work the afternoon through, Laura?" He gave her such a pathetic look, she laughed aloud. Spinning around on her desk, she faced him, and leaned over to toy with his tie.

"What I _expect_ , Mr. Steele, is for _you_ to go lock the front doors," she answered, intense blue eyes catching, holding, her amber ones.

"You mean… here?" he asked in hopeful disbelief. She gave his tie a tug, then locked her mouth over his, pressing her tongue past his lips to delve deep, to tangle, dance with his, leaving his chest rising and falling rapidly when she withdrew.

"Here…" Her laughter trickled through the air as he shot out of his chair and bolted from the office.

Sliding down off the desk, she kicked off her heels, slithered out of her skirt and panties and unbuttoned her shirt, the hem flirting with the garters she'd worn for just this occasion, hoping, praying today would be the day. Releasing the clip in her hair, she shook it free, so it hung loose around her shoulders. This whole scenario that she'd conjured, had planned down to the smallest detail, it… invigorated her. She felt… decadent… wild… free. This was the woman who had existed before she'd allowed her father, Wilson, to convince her that her fire smote all that came near, dousing the flame until she was merely a shadow the person she once was. But not Remington, he craved her fire, stoked its flames, basked in its warmth.

Returning to her office, his smoldering eyes traveled over the remarkable vision before him. Snatching her to him, his mouth lowered over hers, one hand burying itself in her hair, the other alternately stroking the curve of her bare bottom and the top of her silk stockings, hungrily taking what she so eagerly offered. She fed, voraciously, on his mouth as her deft hands quickly rid him of tie and belt, released buttons, clasp and zipper, daring him to keep pace. Keeping her mouth melded to his, he toed off shoes, then socks, as he lost himself in the sweetness of her taste, wiggling out of pants and briefs when she shucked them over his hips. She drew her fingers through his hair then wrapped her arms around his neck, a hint he knew. Grasping both cheeks of her bum, he easily lifted her, so she might lock her legs at his back. Taking several steps forward, he rested her back against the wall, then releasing her lips from beneath his, his mouth zeroed in upon a starving nipple. Her back arched and she cried out from the feeling of his mouth suckling, his tongue lathing, teasing, yet shoved at his shoulders, then drew her hands down his back. He gasped against her breast as goosebumps skittered over his skin.

"Not now," she panted. Her hands urged him back upwards, then drug the tip of her tongue along his jaw, down his neck, and drew his earlobe into her mouth to nibble. He threw back his head and groaned, as a hand stroked breast, stomach waist, a silk clad leg.

"Right at it, then?" he rasped, then sucked in a sharp breath when her lips latched over his collarbone and she drew the skin firmly into her mouth. She suckled, pulled, nipped until his fingertips dug into her bottom, then released the skin, leaving a reddened patch behind.

"This time," she breathed, a low moan ripped from her throat when his fingers slipped between then and parted her folds.

"How long do we have?" He nearly praised the saints when he found her hot, and wetter than he could recall her ever being before.

"Three courses and desert." She forced the words past her lips, squirming when he positioned himself at her opening. "Remington," she drew out his name, almost desperately then closed her eyes and clutched at his shoulders when he buried his shaft in her tight warmth in a single stroke.

"M'fhíorghrá."

He groaned the Gaelic endearment against her ear. If there was any such place as heaven on earth, it was here and now, where his wife's body cradled his after far too long an absence. She dragged her fingers through his hair, down his back and caressed a firm bum cheek, using touch to stir his desire further, to make him move. When he pulled out until only his tip remained, she dropped her head to his shoulder.

"More…"

She drew the word out, then gasped as he pressed back in. He adjusted slightly for better angle, better purchase on the floor beneath his feet. He thrust his hips, filling her again, drawing a moan from her lips then withdrew again. With each stroke, he picked up the pace a little, drove a little deeper. He clenched his jaw, hard, when her fingers whispered across his chest, to his stomach, over his side, and she tilted her hips, increasing his pleasure, before they began to move to time with his. She drew a hand through his hair, and leaned down to nibble at his shoulder, panting quietly and every once in while letting a little squeak of pleasure pass her lips.

She needed more. She wanted him to drive her hard and fast to that precipice. Needed to feel her body explode, trembling around him, clenching him. She longed to feel him thickening within her, to feel his final thrust as he found his bliss, to hold him as he shuddered in her arms, lost himself in her welcoming body.

She pulled out the big gun. Pressing her lips against his neck, her hands clenching and unclenching on his shoulders as she tried to draw him ever more near, she whispered against his ear…

"I love you, Remington."

The words. The lilt of her voice. The smell of honeysuckle, grass and sunshine flooding his senses. The touch of her hands. The feel of her breath against his skin. They suddenly all swirled into one sensation, crashing over him like a tidal wave, and he lost control. His thrusts became less steady, faster, harder. He drew in a harsh, staggered breath and pushed her over the edge with words of his own…

"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, mo chéadsearc."

She shattered on a gasp, followed by a deep guttural moan from low in her throat. Her legs tightened around his waist, her short nails buried themselves in his back, as her muscles clasped and clenched rhythmically around him, as her body arched, and twitched. He could hold on no longer, her body dragging his over that most sought after cliff right after her.

"Laura…" he breathed against her neck, his arms encircling her, crushing her to him.

He wondered, vaguely, if he'd passed out, for when he became fully cognizant again, he'd slipped from his petite wife's body, and she was avidly pressing soft kisses to his shoulder, neck, jaw. Of course, given they were not prone in a pile on the floor, he knew no such thing had happened. Dropping her down, he swung her back up in his arms and carried her to the couch, lying her down before leaving her. She nibbled a lip while admiring his sleek form as he disappeared into his office, presumably to lock the door there, then moved to her door to do likewise. He caught the licentious look in her eyes, playing on her lips.

"Something on your mind, love?"

"I don't know if I'll ever get over what a truly beautiful man you are, Remington Steele." Caught completely off guard by the statement, a smile of pure pleasure lit up his face. Shrugging off his shirt and dropping it to the floor, he offered her hand so she might sit up while he divested her of her shirt as well.

"I certainly hope not, for I'll never tire of your loveliness," he returned the compliment. Lifting her chin with a gentle finger beneath it, he bestowed a tender kiss on her lips, before easing her back and stretching his slim length over top of her. "My turn, now," he asserted. "And, love?" She fingered the hair above his ear.

"Hmmm?"

"This is going to take a while," he forewarned, tasting her lips again. "A long…" a brush of his lips on her right cheek "Long…" then on the left "…while." His lips trailed over her brows, whispered over each eye.

"I thought it might," she answered impishly, drawing her fingers down his back, smiling when he automatically arched into her touch.

And it had, he recalled now, walking into her vacant office and reliving that afternoon. He'd pleasured her three times by hand and mouth before giving in to the pressing need to merge their bodies as one again. The last tremble hadn't even left her body before she'd fallen into a light doze, from which he'd roused her. He'd assisted her in pinning up her hair, before nudging her into the shower, then helping her back into her clothes and easing her back down onto the couch. He'd waited until she slept deeply before he took his leave, closing her office door behind him. Bernice hadn't even bothered to hide her shock when she found him sitting at her desk, prepared to greet any clients who might arrive.

"Where's Laura?" she asked suspiciously. Given Bennett's office had called the day before to confirm his appointment, she had a good idea why the entire staff sans the Steele's were suddenly treated to lunch.

"Napping on the couch in her office. The babe is zapping the energy straight out of her," he answered, smoothly deflecting her curiosity. She wasn't buying it and cut down the small hallway in front of her desk, then swung open Laura's office door. Sure enough, her friend and boss lay sleeping soundly… fully clothed. Still, there would be a conversation to be had with Laura once she woke.

Today, however, it was Remington's turn to wonder where Laura Steele had gotten off to. Crossing back through his office, he returned to Bernice's desk.

"Have you any idea where Laura is? We've a new client arriving in," he glanced at his watch, "eight or so minutes."

"No, you don't," Bernice disagreed.

"I assure you we do. Mrs. Steele was very clear I was to meet her here at one o'clock sharp, so we might conduct the interview together as is our habit," he countered.

"Uh uh," she refuted again, then with a smug smile handed him a folded over piece of paper. Frowning, he flipped open the note.

 _Mr. Steele,_ he read, _As of this moment, you and I are on vacation on until June 29_ _th_ _. Come home, sweetheart. Love, L._ The note had been a bit of last minute improvisation on Laura's part, not wanting him racing home believing something was amiss with her or the baby.

"Perhaps you're correct then, Mrs. Wolf," he grinned, then rapped three times on her desk, drawing a scowl from her. "We'll see you at month's end."

He whistled happily all the way to the elevator, wondering what his dazzling bride had up her sleeve this time.


	37. Chapter 37: Slaying Dragons

Chapter 37: Slaying Dragons

On Saturday morning, Remington's eyes blinked open, and he reached for the bedspread, tucking it around he and Laura a bit more snugly. June it might be, when temperatures trended towards cool but moderate, yet the stone walls of the castle had a way of holding a chill within the structure, most notably during the early morning hours. Easing her hair over her shoulder and plucking a strand from his mouth, he waited as she shifted in her sleep then settled again next to his side, before he tightened his arm about her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head. It would be much longer, he speculated, before she found it too uncomfortable to sleep thus, and he intended to soak every last second of enjoyment out of the feeling of his wife's body splayed across his that he could.

Where once a woman carrying his child was a thing to be guarded against at all costs, now it was a source of unending fascination, anticipation and pride, even. As of the next day, she would be twenty-two weeks along, and her tummy had rounded nicely, leaving no doubt that she was, indeed, with his child. He was held captivated by those times when she suddenly went completely still, excepting for her hand reaching to lie against her belly, her eyes widening slightly and shimmering with joy, telling him she'd just felt their child move within her. In truth, he'd feel a sharp pang of regret sear through his gut on each occasion that he was yet unable to feel the same beneath his sensitive fingers. The notion that their child grew, thrived within her petite frame was still a bit surreal for him, and gut told him, when he finally felt proof of that little being beneath her skin, it would all become a thrilling reality which would leave him smiling even more than he already did these days.

And smile he certainly did, when he looking at her burgeoning tummy, shoving his hands in his pockets, shifting from foot-to-foot, often earning a roll of his wife's eyes heavenward and a shake of her head. He knew she believed those smiles were of manly pride, living proof of his virility, his line's continuity now growing within her. In all fairness, three-quarters of the time she'd be correct. What she didn't know was a goodly deal of the time, his smile was spurned by nothing more than disbelief combined with unadulterated joy. His entire childhood he'd been deemed unworthy, undeserving of what nearly all children received just by virtue of being born: a home, a family. Over time he'd come to believe _this_ could never, should never be his. Yet the most beguiling, intelligent… truly _good,_ woman he'd ever known had deemed him worthy, believed he'd excel at it, and there beneath his hand now, the proof lay. It had been a remarkable and unprecedented leap of faith on her part... in him… in them… and he was still left wholly gobsmacked by it all.

As was he by her announcement they were departing two days early – and for Ireland of all places! Yet another surprise when they arrived: the hotel side of things had been shut down for a full twenty-four hours, the entire staff given a holiday so that he and Laura might have the castle entirely to themselves on Friday. Yesterday they'd spent a quiet day walking the property, speaking softly; riding horses from the new stables installed, be it for a leisurely stroll through the woods or a galloping race across meadows; lunch prepared by the staff before they departed, then dinner made by his own hand. But what's a man to do when presented with such an opportunity as this? When dinner was complete, he'd swept her up in his arms, carried her across the marbled floors of the lower level, up the staircase and to their bedroom, in a nod to a night a year ago. And – blissfully! - the phone had not rung a single time as they'd indulged in one another and the love between them until dawn had streaked across the sky. Oh, his arms ached, the muscles in his legs screamed, and that usually demanding piece of his anatomy when his wife was near, had already given him fair warning – _oh, ho, there'll be no repeats of those shenanigans this morning, old sport, unless, of course, you wish a blistering reminder of why such an idea would be unwise_. And, unless he missed his guess, his wife would of much the same mind. A mischievous smile lifted his lips when said wife stirred against him. Ah, but a man still had to test the waters, hadn't he? To that end, he stroked a hand down her arm, over her hip, along a thigh, before doubling back to caress an enticing little bottom.

"Not happening," Laura murmured against his chest. She adjusted against him slightly so she might tip her head back to look at him, groaning as she did so. "Oh God, I'm sore," she lamented. "I haven't been this sore since the last time we were here."

"Ah, but then, with daring, commitment, perseverance we overcame our bodies' limitations so we might revel in the unrivaled bliss of..."

"I'm older than I was then, and have more self-control," she interrupted, cutting his monologue short. He barked an incredulous laugh, his eyes twinkling down on her with merriment.

" _More self-control?!_ This from the woman who managed to hold me at bay for four, long, torturous years, denying us both what we wished for, longed for, dreamt—" He words were again stifled, this time by a finger to his lips.

"Save it. It's not happening," she said again, firmly. "You're awfully loquacious this morning, even for you," she observed. "Any particular reason?" He slipped out from beneath her to turn on his side and face her, propping head in hand.

"I'm a contented man, Laura," he answered, turning surprisingly serious and intense eyes on her. He lifted her hair over her shoulder, then rested his hand on her expanding waist. "Only a year ago, here in this very place, I'd lost Daniel, was all but certain I'd lost you. I was once more a man without a home, a place where he belonged. Quite alone, a status which once I preferred, but no longer knew how to be… happily at least. And now? Rapturously wed to the most intelligent, most enchanting woman I've ever known, whom I love beyond all measure, and loves me in return. A home I treasure and a job I enjoy, both of which I happen to share with that same woman." His eyes dropped to her stomach and he circled a single finger there in ever smaller arcs. A smile lifted a corner of his mouth. "A child, on the way. A father." He turned and lay on his back, pillowing his head on folded hands. "And now, twice in little more than a month's span, I find you stealing me away, for no other reason that you wish us to have time alone together, to celebrate. There were many nights during all those years when I dreamed of just that…"

Laura stared, wide-eyed at Remington, for long seconds. She couldn't recall a time when he'd ever spoken so freely, had so easily related his feelings. No stumbling, no angst. It had the effect of initially leaving her a bit shell-shocked, then as she recovered, blinking moist eyes. She palmed a cheek in her hand and when he turned to look at her, lay her lips against his while holding her eyes with his.

"I do love you, you know," she told him quietly, emphatically when she parted their joined lips. He buried a hand in her hair to keep her near.

"I know. And it is for that I am most thankful of all, because it is from there all the rest was made possible." Two fingers pressed against the back of her head, and he mouthed, 'come here.' Well, when a man's made a speech such as he had, and he was looking at you as though you were all the world to him, what's a woman to do. She bent down and touched her lips to his. The words, the hands caressing her bare bottom and back, the lips moving skillfully over hers, had her body twitching with need in no time at all. And he knew it in no uncertain terms. His lips lifted in a smile beneath hers, as he rolled her to her back.

"Oh God," she murmured. He lifted his head to look down at her. She drug her fingers through his hair, then across his shoulders. "I think we're in trouble."

"A position we seem to find ourselves in each time we're here," he nodded, solemnly, then covered his mouth with hers again.

And they were.

* * *

Remington cast a sideways look towards Laura, the half dozenth of such looks in the last half hour, as she maneuvered her way through the streets of Galway, steadily approaching the site which was, for a short period, a home in which he stayed when just a boy of ten: St. Patrick's orphanage. He'd taken her there, the last time they were in Ireland, and neither of them had fared well in the aftermath. She'd been left shaken, feeling guilty and filled with fury for what he'd lived through there. For him, it had revived nightmares long suppressed, that he'd suffered through in silence. If that is where she was, indeed, heading, he'd no desire to make this particular jaunt a tradition.

"Laura…?" he tried again. No need to repeat the entirety of a question he'd asked several times to no avail. She reached over and grasped his hand, weaving their fingers together and giving it a squeeze.

"Relax. What happened to that contented man of this morning?" she teased, lightly.

"His wife decided to take him on a jaunt that is coming perilously close to somewhere he never wished to return," he groused. She cast him an exasperated look.

"Do you trust me?" That drew a double take from him.

"Implicitly." She raised her brows at him.

"Then relax." He resisted the impulse to cross his arms and give in to a good sulk. Nevertheless, he did exactly that when she turned their car down the road on which the orphanage was located.

Only it no longer stood where it once had. He looked to Laura, as she parked the car and stepped from it. With a rub at his face with his hand, he unfolded himself from the car, leaning against the door after he closed it.

"Not a single person who was harmed at that …. _Priest's_ … hands," she fairly spat out the word 'priest', "Will ever return here again to see that building standing as a living testament to their suffering." To his utter mortification, he found himself blinking hard against the tingling in his eyes.

"How?" he asked, voice gravelly.

"Thomas convinced the Church they wouldn't want word of how the Earl of Claridge had been abused there as a child to get out… not to mention all the other children. The Diocese donated the building… and the funds to destroy it. We found a landscape architect who volunteered his time and talents. Your father and I shared the expense of the materials. Now it will be a place of joy for children, instead of a haunting reminder of children afraid, in pain." He nodded his head repeatedly, swiping at his face again before drawing her into his arms and holding her close, resting his chin on her head as he stared at the playground before him.

"A truly inspired idea, love," he praised.

"There's more." He drew back to look at her, questioningly. Slipping from his arms, she clasped his hand with hers and drew him to the plaque hanging on the wrought iron fence next to the gated opening. Reading it, he shoved a hand in his pocket and rocked back on his heels. She felt the tremor of the hand in hers.

"The Daniel Chalmers Memorial Playground," he read aloud.

"It seemed right, to honor the man that not only saved a child, but taught that child children should never be harmed," she explained.

"I…" he lost his voice and cleared his throat, "I think Daniel would've been honored." His gruff voice, coupled with him lifting a hand to worry a thumbnail, concerned her.

"Are you alright?" He shook his head slowly at her, but at least dropped his hand from his mouth.

"I'm overwhelmed, Laura. You, thinking to do this for me. My father aiding." He looked at the sign again. "Daniel."

"The day you brought me here, I promised myself I'd see the place gone one day. And if I could find that so-called Priest…" she shook her head.

"Slaying my dragons for me, then, are you?" She shrugged a single shoulder as she turned to face him.

"You've done the same for me in the past," she pointed out. "Remington?"

"Hmmmm?" he answered, his focus still on the playground.

"Your child and I are hungry." He blinked hard, then looked at her as the words registered. Cliche though the comment might have been, it had done the job intended, tearing him away from his dolesome thoughts.

"Well, we can't have that." He brushed his lips against her cheek then held out an arm. "Lunch, Mrs. Steele." Smiling she slipped her hand through the crook of his arm.

"Lunch, Mr. Steele."


	38. Chapter 38: Father's Day

Chapter 38: Father's Day

Laura and Remington arrived in Oia early Sunday afternoon. The Androkus home was crammed full with extended family and friends who were feasting on the traditional after church banquet the Androkus's lay out each week. There was much ado about the young couple's arrival, with many slaps of Remington's back in congratulations of his impending fatherhood, along with some good-natured ribbing, and gripes from a good many about the money they'd lost when they'd laid odds fatherhood would be years down the line or the notion dismissed altogether.

Laura had been dragged off by Helena, Calista and Melina the second Elena had stopped showering the younger woman with hugs and kisses. Whereas her husband had received hearty smacks in congratulations, she was willing to swear under oath that nearly every woman had touched, stroked, held her stomach. Whereas he was teased about how quickly fatherhood had descended upon him after marriage, she received a veritable _War and Peace_ worth of advice on everything from gas to swollen ankles. She held tight to her patience, had managed to keep a smile plastered to her face, but when one cousin – five times removed, at that – asked if she was preparing her breasts for nursing, she'd looked around the room with some desperation and caught Remington's eye where he stood drinking Ouzo and laughing with a group of men. He'd immediately excused himself and made his way to her.

"Mrs. Steele, if you think you could tear yourself away," he began, when he reached her side, "I'd like to go to the house, get unpacked and get in a kip or two before the festivities this evening."

"I suppose we should," she answered, feigning a heavy sigh of regret.

Elena reached into her pocket and pulled out the key to the small home in which Remington had spent part of his childhood, while snapping her fingers towards a group of men. Mikos gave a sharp nod, before dismissing himself from the group he'd been speaking with.

"Mikos will drive you to the house, then return for you at six and deliver you to see Ioseph before dinner," she instructed. Remington turned slack jawed at the directions, while Laura's eyes widened. _Delivered, indeed,_ he muttered to himself silently, _Right into the lion's den!_

"Uh, Elena, could our meeting with Ioseph perhaps wait until later in the week? We're both a bit jetlagged and with court tomorrow we—"

"Xenos, you will do as you are told," the older woman told him firmly, drawing a chagrined look from the man she considered a son.

"Of course," he acquiesced, bussing her on the cheek. "Shall we, love?" he inquired of Laura, holding out his hand towards the door. She held her tongue and amusement until they got into the car.

"I _have_ to find time to sit down with Elena and find out exactly how it is she gets you to follow direction, when I've had so little success." He gave her a withering look.

"It's no secret, Laura," he drawled. "Beyond the debt I owe for them taking me in as a child, once Elena's tugged you about the kitchen by your ear for talking back, then has served you up for one of Marcos's tasks to work off your misdeed, you're not inclined to test those waters often."

"By your…. I'm not sure if I should be alarmed or amused." He shrugged his shoulders.

"I see no reason to be alarmed. Even as a young lad, most understand they don't wish to be parted from their ear. Imagine the teasing on the playground!" he grinned. "Christos was not among the wiser. A couple months before I set out on my own, he decided to attempt flight whilst his ear was between her fingers. Needless to say, he didn't get far, but his ear was reddened for a week. To this day, all Elena has to do is move a hand near that ear, and he becomes a bumbling mass of contrition and solicitude." His warm laughter filled the car. "Am I wrong, Mikos?"

"Xen speaks the truth. Chris's fear of Thea Elena taking hold of his ear is the source of much laughter at the dinner table," Mikos confirmed. Laura gave a small snort of laughter.

"And yourself, Mikos? Has Elena done the same to you?" Remington shook his head before Mikos could reply and held his hand before his mouth as though prepared to share a secret.

"Choir boy," he told her in a stage whisper.

"Respectful," Mikos corrected. "Unlike Christos, Zeth and Xenos, I felt no need to test the boundaries… or risk the consequences for doing so."

"As I said…" Remington replied.

"At least I have no reason to fear when Thea Elena orders me to Ioseph," Mikos retorted, giving Remington a smirk in the rearview mirror. "Can you say the same, Xen?" Remington crossed his arms and looked out the window, refusing to dignify the question with an answer while his traitorous wife tittered with mirth beside him, drawing his attention back to her.

"Need I remind you, love, who ended up with the lion's share of penance when last we crossed paths with Ioseph?" he asked while raising a brow in her direction. Her laughter faded and a look of alarm settled on her face, as he'd meant it to, while she scanned her brain for _anything_ she'd done which might curry displeasure.

* * *

Although need to unpack and take a nap had been merely a ruse, it was, in fact, precisely what the Steele's had done, although not intentionally. After unpacking, they'd stretched out on Remington's old childhood bed, while he'd used soothing touch as Laura had expressed her frustration over everyone laying their hands on her stomach earlier, and her worries that this didn't bode well for the future months. While she'd grown accustomed to Remington's unconscious touches over the years, by nature she was woman shied away from casual contact, guarding her personal space ferociously. Oh, a handshake in greeting was fine, expected even, but she was given to staring at a hand, unhappily, which was casually rested or clasped against her arm and was certainly not above ordering someone to 'take your hands off me' when they got too feely. That there might be a steady uptick of strangers pawing at her stomach wasn't something she'd considered, and the very idea made her miserable now. His quiet understanding coupled with the gentle stroking of her arm, hip, stomach had lulled her off to sleep. Spooned behind her, he was effectively pinned between the wall and her body, and not wishing to wake her, he'd dozed off as well.

They'd been wakened by a most enthusiastic and annoying pounding on the front door which had left both of them being startled from sleep. They'd been left scrambling to put back on shoes, to smooth down hair and get out the door. Now they sat before Ioseph, who was currently bestowing on them a healthy dose of skepticism coupled with a dark look of displeasure.

"I can't think of a thing," Remington repeated for the second time, lifting both hand palms up then letting them fall.

"Me either," Laura also repeated, with raised brows and a helpless flick of her hand.

"This, from your wife I might believe, but yourself, Xenos?" Ioseph scoffed. "Elena will be displeased when she finds you've lied to your Priest in order to avoid the unpleasantries of penance." Remington raised and dropped his hands again.

"May I remind you I'm a married man, who has chosen to live on the right side of the law?" he countered. "Believe me, I am far more worried about currying my wife's displeasure than the Church's. After all, I have to _sleep_ with her, a state made relatively difficult when one must keep an eye open." Crossing her arms, Laura snorted a quiet laugh at that, a smile playing with her lips. Ioseph's gaze swung to her.

"You find enjoyment in your husband's cavalier dismissal of the Church's authority, then?" Her eyes widened and jaw flapped for a long second before she found her voice.

"I don't think that's what he was doing at all," she rebutted. She turned to Remington for support. "Were you?"

"Not at all. I was merely making the point that you have the ability to make my life glorious or quite the opposite should I provoke that mercurial temper of yours and I much prefer the former," he agreed. She held up her hands towards Ioseph as if to say 'see?' Ioseph looked from one to the other, then leaned back in his chair and let the silence linger long.

"Since neither of you will be swayed from this foolish course, you may leave," he directed, with a dismissive wave of his hand towards the door.

Remington gave a careless shrug and stood to offer Laura a hand up. She waited until the door closed behind them and they were several feet down the hallway before she gave in to laughter.

"I don't think your cousin is very pleased with you at the moment." He gave her hand a squeeze.

"Us, love. Us. And if I know him as well as I once did, he'll be out for blood next go round." His comment drew a frown.

"Rather childish, don't you think?"

"Laura, you're speaking of a man who mingles amongst family, racking up penance in his head," he reminded her.

"Why do Elena and Marcos put up with it? Encourage it even?" she demanded to know as they exited the church.

"Not Marcos. Elena is, for the most part, in charge of the children's upbringing and education, including religious. She comes from a very strict, Catholic family," he continued, opening the car door for her, "And is bound and determined to preserve her children's immortal souls."

"Don't you find that a bit odd, in light of Marcos's profession?" she pursued, as she slid into the backseat.

"Not particularly. Not only does Marcos hail from the same background as Elena's own, but he's a man of morals _and_ superstition, in his own right. You'll not be able to convince him to transport drugs, weapons, of any kind, on his ship. He fully believes any harm you aid, will revisit you tenfold." He gave her a censuring look. "There is such a thing as the honorable miscreant, Laura. You married one."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," she chastised, with a shake of her head. "I love Elena and Marcos. I'm just… frustrated with Ioseph and his imperiousness. Who runs rough shod over him?"

"Marcos," Remington and Mikos answered as though of one voice.

"Priest or not, Marcos will have him out on the ship doing hard labor when he goes too far," Remington added.

"And Ioseph simply accepts that?" She gave a short, dry, bark of a laugh. "I have a hard time believing that."

"There is only one thing that trumps Ioseph's loathing of manual labor, and that is his fear of being uninvited to all Androkus functions. Where else would he find so many hapless victims in a single place… daily at that?"

"Not to mention so many with whom he has a bone to pick," Mikos added.

"And why, exactly is that?" Laura inquired.

"Eleven of us cousins were within a three-year range of one another, Ioseph amongst that number. When he wasn't tattling on one of us, he was sniveling about another," Mikos explained. "We were forever finding ourselves doing hard labor instead of playing out of doors, as we should have, because of his unpleasant nature and often when we'd done nothing at all, given he was prone to tales when something didn't go the way he wished. On several occasions, the cousin most recently sentenced would provoke him into a round of fisticuffs, he always coming out on the losing side. Naturally, more tattling, more punishment would follow. Eventually, having had enough, we ostracized him, only engaging with him when forced by our parents."

"So, he uses his role as a Priest to settle old scores?" Laura asked, flabbergasted.

"Aye," Remington answered.

"I have to ask again… Why? Why does anyone put up with it?" Her voice raised an octave and she threw up her hands.

"Because other than this game with family members, he's a good Priest," he answered with a shrug.

"And, except when it is our own head on the chopping block, we enjoy the competition of who will next send whom to Ioseph," Mikos added with a grin.

The car came to a stop in front of the Androkus home and all three got out. Remington claimed Laura's hand for his own as they walked to the front door. The evening festivities had already begun when they arrived, the house packed with immediate family: Christos, Helena and their brood of five; Zeth, Calista and their six children; Melina, accompanied by Giorgos Demetriou, the thirtyish man she'd been dating for some months; and, Alex and Stavros, along with their wives and their combined seven children. The small family dinner was comprised of fifteen adults and eighteen children… well, eighteen adults if all had gone as planned. Christos, of course, had been waiting to ambush Remington.

"So, big brother," he greeted, slapping Remington on the back of the shoulder a little more exuberantly than necessary, drawing a look, "How much time shall you be committing to penance this time? Three days? A week?"

"Neither myself nor Laura will be spending so much as a minute on penance," Remington exulted, enjoying the astounded look on Christos's face before he caught himself and dismissed Remington's claim.

"I don't believe you. It's been months since your last confession," Christos refuted. "So, tell the truth, brother… What did Ioseph assign you?" Remington merely lifted a brow at the other man, leading him to look to Laura for her to contradict her husband's claims. She held up a hand and shook her head.

"We couldn't come up with a thing," she told him simply.

"Couldn't…! Ah, come now, Xenos, you know Mama will be quite upset when she finds out you lied in the confessional," Christos warned.

"May I remind you, we never see the inside of the confessional? But that is neither here nor there. Business has been… sedate… so there's not been much opportunity to get ourselves into trouble there," Remington expounded.

"Not to mention much of our time has been preoccupied with the aftermath of Roselli and Anna," Laura added.

"I still don't believe it, but come, Mama has allowed no one to eat, not even a pinch of moussaka, until you joined us."

Remington guided Laura with his hand at the small of her back, the threesome crossed living room, kitchen and dining room, to join the rest of the family on the terrace. He'd just bent over to pull out her chair for her when he did a double take at the man seated two chairs down from where Laura would be.

"Father?" He drew out the name in disbelief, as Thomas stood and eased his way past Catherine's chair to embrace his son. "Pardon me for asking, but what are you _doing here?_ "

"Laura thought you'd enjoy my presence for your anniversary celebration," Thomas answered, while clapping his son on the back, "And that I might want to be at Roselli's sentencing, given the time he cost us."

"She did, did she?" he asked, giving his wife a thousand-watt smile, as he stepped from his father's embrace. "Where are you staying?"

"Marcos and Elena recommended the Spa at the top of the Cyclades. Catherine and I checked in last evening." Remington bent down and bussed Catherine's cheek, while Laura and Thomas embraced.

"Catherine, thank you for coming."

"Laura extended us an invitation we couldn't possibly decline," she answered, demurely. Once Thomas sat back down, Remington assisted Laura into her seat, then joined her.

As was tradition when not eating banquet style, Elena, Melina, Calista and Helena served the family. From somewhere down towards the end of the table came a familiar voice.

"Thank you."

Remington leaned forward in his seat, certain he'd imagined it, then sat back up straight to look at Laura, who'd covered her mouth as she laughed.

"Good Lord, you've been busy, woman," he observed, then stood to walk to the other side of the table.

"Hello, darling," he greeted Mildred, bending down to buss her on the cheek. "You and Mrs. Steele have been keeping secrets again, I see. Sad day when a man is surrounded by women conspiring to keep him off-balance."

"Ah, Chief, you'll be fine," she grinned, patting his cheek.

"Are you staying at the Spa as well?"

"Uh uh. Since you and the missus are staying elsewhere, Elena invited me to stay in the guest room normally use."

"I see, three women, then, in cahoots. I'll have to find a way to even those odds," he teased, before standing upright and returning to sit next to his partner. She leaned over and held her lips close to his ear.

"Happy anniversary," she whispered, then brushed a feather light kiss against his neck below his ear, before sitting upright again.

"I think you may well have outdone anything I might have in store, Mrs. Steele," he noted, quietly, for her ears only.

"Yet, there's more to come…" She left him with that thought, as she turned away to talk to Catherine, leaving him scratching at the side of his head.

* * *

When dinner had ended, with the workday lying ahead, the crowd in the Androkus household quickly thinned. All the adults with children had departed to put their young ones to bed, although both Zeth and Christos had promised to return for a bit after the children were asleep. By unspoken agreement, the remaining adults gathered by the pool on chairs and chaises they'd arranged in a semi-circle, so they could converse while those who'd chosen to enjoyed a chilled glass of Ouzo. Much like Remington and herself, Melina reclined between Giorgos's legs, her back resting against his chest. This evening had been the calmest Laura had ever seen the younger woman, and watching her with Giorgos now, she couldn't help but wonder if Melina had found the person who soothed her heart.

"Tell me, Xenos, Laura, do you worry over the outcome of the trial?" Marcos queried. Remington looked down at Laura, who, looking up at him, merely shrugged a single shoulder.

"I'd say not. We're not particularly looking forward to it or seeing the man again, but even if he were able to somehow escape justice here, it would merely mean he'd be extradited elsewhere. My stubborn and persistent partner saw to that," he credited. Her hand stroked his forearm in thanks.

"What do you mean, Xen?" Melina piped in, looking at the couple questioningly.

"If she hadn't insisted on pursuing why Roselli came after us in the first place, two murders would have gone unanswered," he turned to look at Thomas, "And I'd never have found my father."

"Two murders?" Melina questioned.

"A young couple, just kids really. The military had written off the husband's death as a terrible accident," Laura explained. "When his parachute failed to open on a training jump. Then, presumably because of guilt over her affair with Roselli, when the wife was found dead, it was assumed she'd committed suicide. It was only after we'd broken into Roselli's cabin in Mexico and found the girl's diary that it could be proven he'd murdered both."

"Now, the United States Army wants their turn with him, after Greece and Mexico are through with him," Remington continued.

"Then, of course, there are the charges in Los Angeles for what he did to myself and Xenos: Assault, battery, breaking and entering, kidnapping, murder-for-hire…" she added.

"I never trusted the wannabe homewrecker, not from the get go, always sniffing around the missus like he was," Mildred told the group. "But I _never_ suspected how nuts he really was. And to think it was him behind not only the Boss getting shot, but me getting run over too! If I could get my hands on him, I'd… I'd…" She made a strangling motion with her hands.

"You were run over?" Catherine asked, appalled. "By a car?"

"Oh, yeah," Mildred nodded. "I belong to a bowling team called the Dragon Ladies. We'd just won our latest match when…"

Remington gave Laura's hand a squeeze and when she leaned her head back to look at him, he tilted his head towards the other side of the terrace. She nodded, then stood. They made their way towards the wall overlooking the Aegean. Taking the initiative, he climbed up on the wall to sit, then helped her up to settled between his legs, as he wrapped a protective arm around her waist, letting his right hand rest upon the swell of her stomach.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" he asked, knowing if she had any misgivings, she'd voice them now that they were alone.

"No," she shook her head, "Not really. But I'm not looking forward to it."

"I know what you mean. I want the man to spend the rest of his infernal life rotting in a cell somewhere, but I'd much prefer we not have to relive that evening." Her hand stroked down his left arm, and she took his hand in hers.

"It'll be alright. It's over. We're here, safe. We won, Remington, no matter what happens tomorrow." He let out a harsh breath.

"I hate it, Laura," he confessed, voice strained, as she absently twirled he ring on his finger. "Some of the best memories of my life are here on this island. It was the closest I'd ever known of a home. A sanctuary, even. But now those memories will forever be mixed with knowing he was here, watching us in those days after Ireland… That it was here I watched him hold a gun to you."

"Don't do that. Don't let him have that type of power," she demanded, quietly. "The only thing you need to remember about that last night is that when he was here, this incredible family of yours did as they vowed to do: They kept us safe while helping to capture him. _That's_ what matters." Tucking his head down on her shoulder, he nuzzled her neck with his cheek. Silence lingered between them, as she turned her attention to the lights from boats on the harbor, twinkling like stars resting on the water. The sky was inky dark, with little light being shed by the waning crescent moon, allowing the thousands of stars in the sky to seem even brighter than normal.

"It's beautiful here," she sighed.

"Mmmmm," he hummed, looking out over the harbor. "Yet not near so beautiful as the woman in my arms." She laughed softly and this time it was she nuzzling her head against his.

"You sweet talking Irishman," she teased lightly, before her attention was diverted by the baby moving from her left side to her right. His hand pressed more firmly against her stomach, and he looked down over her shoulder at her rounded stomach.

"Laura, was that…?" She turned her head to look at, him a smile lighting her face.

"The baby?" Reaching back, she lay a hand against his cheek as she nodded. "It was."

"Extraordinary," he murmured. "Perhaps you're right, then."

"About anything specific?"

"Not allowing Roselli to taint my memories of this place, what it is to me." He looked out across the expanse of the terrace, his eyes lingering on his extended family conversing, laughing. "Right on this terrace alone are three of the most cherished memories of my life."

"Oh?" He lifted her left hand to his mouth and brushed his lips across the knuckles.

"The night we exchanged these rings and embraced the totality of our future together." She tilted her head back to bestow him with a soft smile. He dropped a kiss upon the tip of her nose. "Our wedding. And now, the first time I felt our child move." Closing her eyes, she grasped his hands and, tangling their fingers together, wrapped his arms firmly around herself.

"For me, this will always be the place where I can imagine you as a little boy. Safe. Loved. Swimming in the Aegean. Getting into mischief with Christos. Building sandcastles with Melina. Pestering Zeth. At least here, you were a child." He nodded his head slowly, then tucked her head under his chin, holding tight to her as he tried to accommodate the sudden rush of emotions their conversation had caused.

Across the terrace, Mildred had been watching the couple and gave a wistful little sigh.

"Is something the matter, Mildred?" Melina asked with concern.

"It's just so nice seeing the kids like this." Melina turned to look at the couple.

"Xen and Laura? But they're always like that, forever sneaking off to be alone, looking for the other when they're parted. Are they not at home?" she asked with curiosity. Mildred shook her head in answer.

"Oh, I've walked in on them in a clinch a time or two over the years, but even now they're rarely this… open, relaxed," she observed. "At home, maybe, but even then, not like this with company present. But in public? Oh ho, nothin' doin'."

"I wonder why," Melina pondered.

"The kids would say it's because they have an image to maintain. They're big news in LA, especially the Boss. You saw how it was after he was shot." Melina nodded her head. "But I'd say that's a bunch of hogwash. Habit, _that's what it is_. Years of pretending there was nothin' going on between them, both determined the other admit to their feelings before they did. They're so used to pretending there's nothing between them that it's like a comfortable old shoe." Melina leaned forward, out of Giorgos's embrace, wrapping her arms around her knees to lay an eager gaze on Mildred.

"Oh, do tell me!" she pled. "I've been dying to know! Xen was always so… indifferent… towards women before, then he shows up here last year…" She let the thought trail off, hoping Mildred would answer the questions her brother would just brush off.

"Well, I met the kids while I was still working as an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service. He was under investigation for failing to file a tax return, but in the middle of our business…" she snapped her fingers "…he took off for Mexico. Well, I thought he was absconding, but in truth Miss Holt… Mrs. Steele… was in danger…"

Soon, all eyes were on Mildred as she told the tale of how Miss Holt and Mr. Steele, had come to be the Steele's. A good evening, in her eyes, as she loved to be the center of attention when she was telling a story.

* * *

Remington stood in the doorway of the bedroom, staring at the bed, while Laura cast a speculative look his way.

"What's wrong?" she asked. He grimaced, and shifted from foot-to-foot, shoving his hands towards his pockets, only to belatedly recall his pajama bottoms had no such feature, making him look all the more the fool when his hands instead met only air.

"I feel like a lad who's snuck his girlfriend into the house to diddle her in Mum and Da's bed," he admitted, squirming some more. She giggled with mirth next to him.

"For a man with seemingly few requirements on who he 'diddled'… outside of big breasts and no brains, that is… you have a remarkable number of inhibitions when it comes the possibility of 'diddling' in your parents' home," she teased. He gave her an affronted look.

"I suppose you'd feel any differently if this was your Mother's bed? Where she may have done some 'diddling' of her own?" Her stomach flip-flopped at the vivid image his words had painted in her mind. She scrunched up her face in distaste.

"Well, now _I_ certainly can't sleep in here," she groused, marching over to the bed and yanking the pillows from it. "And I don't believe _my Mother_ has done any 'diddling' since my father left," she added, as she stomped past him towards the living room.

"I think we both know that's not true," he called after her, as he gathered sheets, blanket and spare comforter from the closet then pulled the quilt from the bed, "There's Daniel then the man for whom she bought the… blech… purple wardrobe." In the living room, she plunked her hands on her hips and lifted her chin towards him.

" _Mr. Steele_ , if _you_ wish to _ever_ 'diddle' again, it's my recommendation you stop discussing my mother's sex life!" He smirked at her as he dropped the bedding onto the floor of the living room.

"Seems I'm not the only one with… conflicts… then, eh?" She stared at him for a long moment, then couldn't stop the laugh from passing her lips.

"You're incorrigible," she scolded. He gave her a quick flash of teeth in answer as he spread comforter over quilt.

"All part of my charm." He stood up and held out a hand towards the makeshift bed. "In you get, then." Holding his hand, she knelt down then crawled to the far side and lay down.

"I won't be able to do this much longer," she noted ruefully.

"I have to admit," he told her, as he joined her, "I'm looking forward to the days when you'll need to be hauled to your feet."

"You're confusing your movies and reality again, Remington," she dismissed, then as if to prove the point, got abruptly to her feet again and left the room.

"Something I said," he called after her. A melodious laugh was all the answer he received. "Laura, need I remind you that you need your rest? We've a long day tomorrow." When she reappeared, she turned down the lights, then stepped over him and lay back down, setting the small package she'd brought back with her on his bared chest. "What's this?" he asked with a grin, picking it up and eyeing it.

"Do you have any idea what today is?" she asked, instead. He knew a moment of panic as he wondered if he'd missed a milestone of some sort. Searching his brain he came up utterly blank.

"Other than Sunday, no idea," he answered, turning his head to look at her.

"It's Father's Day," she informed him. "A holiday that will figure prominently in your life for years to come, as you're inundated with tacky ties, garish socks, and all sorts of useless knick-knacks." The thought set a goofy smile on his face.

"And I'll treasure every one of them," he vowed.

"I'll remind you of that promise when you're whining about having to wear a tie with rainbows on it," she forewarned. He shook the box in his hand and looked at her expectantly.

"A gift worthy of the man," she answered vaguely. "Go ahead, open it." Her nerves got the better of her while he pulled off bow, ripped paper and dropped the velvet case contained within into his hand. He sent her a questioning look, took in the nervous hand stroking her throat, even as she carefully blanked her face, attempting disguise her unease. She fought the urge to yank the box out of his hands, even as he pried open the lid and then just stared. She closed her eyes. It had been a risk… a seemingly bad one.

"Is this…?"

"Yes," she drew out the word, her upset with herself going unnoticed by him.

"You said the hospital must've lost it…"

"I lied." She flopped to her back and pressed a hand to her eyes. "I'm sorry. I thought… I wasn't…. grrrrrrrr," she finally growled, frustrated and angry with herself.

"Why?" The single word stabbed at her heart.

"I thought I'd figured it out… Why you'd left it blank… I'm sorry…" she repeated, then cursed quietly under her breath. _Damned hormones_ , she cursed again silently, as she felt the telltale tickle behind her eyes. He turned to his side to watch her.

"What is it you thought you'd figured out?" She gave a sharp shake of her head and remained infernally silent. "Lau-ra," he drawled her name, while easing her hand down off her face. She let out a puff of air, and averted her eyes.

"A reminder. That you were the man with no name. Each day you could create whatever life you wished, be whoever you wished, but none of those lives or names ever meant enough for you to keep." He trailed the back of two fingers down her cheek.

"You know me too well," he said softly. She turned to look at him and let out the breath she'd been holding when she saw it was not disappointment on his face, but stunned tenderness. "I'm afraid I'm a bit speechless. I've no idea what to say, except, thank you." Bending over her, he lay his lips against hers and let them linger, doing nothing more, yet the exquisite gentleness said all words couldn't. Her brown eyes blinked then held his.

"You're welcome," she answered, as quietly as he'd spoken. Remington rolled to his back and removed his ID bracelet from the jeweler box and stared at his name, now emblazoned there. It was odd, he reflected. He'd worn the bracelet daily, most of his adult life, yet when he believed it lost he'd given scant attention to the lack of weight at his wrist. That he'd given no thought to finally having it engraved was perhaps of more import: he was living the life he'd claimed for himself, reminders were no longer needed.

"Turn it over, sweetheart," she suggested.

He slanted his eyes to her, then returned them to the bracelet, doing just that… and rubbed a hand over his mouth, vaguely wondering why Laura seemed to be doing her damnedest on this trip to make a grown man cry as though her were still a lad in short pants. For inscribed on the other side were four words: _Son Partner Husband Father_.

He'd had every intention of soothing her to sleep that evening, so that she and, by way of her, their child, could get the rest they both seemed to require these days. But what's a man to do when his heart was slamming against the wall of his chest, and the words simply would not come? The man of deeds? Setting the bracelet to the side, he rolled to her and in one motion devoured her lips. Unlike years past, she understood the emotions guiding his actions, and while the fingers of one hand whispered across the skin of his bare back the other glided through his hair. He berated himself the inability to say the words he'd wanted to convey, to tell her that her gift represented everything she'd been responsible for him having. Instead, as his lips, teased, caressed, savored hers, there was only one word he was able to make pass his lips, but it was the word that had come to mean everything him so quickly nearly five years before.

"Laura," he uttered, voice gravelly with unstated emotion.

"I know, Remington, I do know," she assured him.

And the wonder of it all was that she did, even though the words were never spoken at all.


	39. Epilogue

Epilogue

The trial of Anthony Roselli, held before a mixed court of four jurors and three judges in the Court of First Instance took a little over day, between presentation of evidence and testimony. Roselli's frequent outbursts had taxed the judges and left Remington fuming. But it was Roselli's own testimony that had led Laura to clench his hand, while Marcos kept a steadying hand on his shoulder to prevent him from jumping over the balustrade and wringing the life out of the man. Testimony peppered liberally with insults hurled at Laura: 'whore,' 'cheating bitch,' and 'lying slut.' Her final kidnapping, the gun held to her head, he claimed, was a plan they'd devised together in order to free her from the abusive clutches of the man she'd been forced to wed. It was only when Steele had arrived on the scene that she'd decided to save herself while throwing Roselli to the wolves, pretending she'd been a victim all along instead of the co-conspirator that she was.

The Court didn't buy what he'd attempted to sell, and he'd been given twenty years.

It hadn't been enough to quell Remington's rage. A few soft words spoken in Marcos's ear, and it had all been arranged. A diversion for his wife, in the form of Melina and Mildred insisting the three women visit the local shops, so Baby Steele might have a few authentic Greek touches in his or her nursery. Favors called in by Marcos. A story of an afternoon of golf, confirmed by Zeth and Christos. And now, he stood inside of four cement walls, waiting for the moment the door swung open and for his nemesis to appear.

"Antony," he nodded at the man.

"Steele," Roselli greeted back. Remington nodded his head towards the shackles Roselli wore.

"Remove them, then have yourself a cuppa on me," he told the guard, slipping a generous incentive into the man's hand. "Five minutes should be enough," he added, once Roselli was freed. With a nod, the guard closed the door behind him.

"Come to gloat? If so, I'm not interested," Roselli spoke first. "I'll be outta here before the ink on my sentencing paperwork dries. I'm an important man within the industry. Thought you'd figure that out by now."

"Mmmm, yes, yes," Remington pretended to agree, while casually removing his jacket and hanging it on the back of a chair. "So important you've been left languishing in here, for what? Six months now? In such high demand that the INS, CIA and MI5 have all cut ties with you? Hmmmm? It seems to me, Antony, old boy, the only place you're in demand is in one prison after the next for the remainder of your natural life. What was it again?" He rubbed his chin as though in thought, then began rolling up each of his sleeves as he spoke. "Mexico first, I believe, where you'll be tried for the murders of your ex-lover and Norman Keyes, not to mention a host of charges as it pertains to my lovely wife. After you serve out that sentence, if you don't die in prison, the Army wants their turn with you for the murders of John and Jenny McDonald. Then, last, but not least, there's LA, and the myriad of charges awaiting you in relation to the kidnapping of my wife." With each sentence spoken, Roselli's face became darker with rage, although he barked a laugh at the last.

"Los Angeles will never be able to take a crack at me," he bragged. "The statute of limitations will long be gone." Remington pursed his lips and nodded.

"Perhaps, perhaps. Speaking of LA, you _do_ recall our conversation there, in Cannes, about what would happen should you ever go near Laura again, don't you? Hmmmmmm?" He removed watch and bracelet and dropped them into the pocket of his jacket.

"Here to defend the little whore's honor, are ya?" the man taunted. "Are you even sure that kid she's carrying is yours?" Remington froze for a moment, the vileness of the statement only further fueling his fury. Roselli saw the hesitance, took it for weakness, and cracked a demented cackle. "You're not, are you? Oh, that's rich." Remington took a step towards the man, pointed to the jagged scar on his cheek, then flicked his eye patch with a finger.

"Laura's handiwork, eh? I must be certain to extend her my compliments, though it must have damaged that ego of yours to be bested by a _mere_ woman," he taunted.

"She's a hell cat, I'll give her that," he snickered, then winked bawdily at Remington, "In bed and out from what I've—" Roselli had been expecting it, but even so, the hard jab straight to his nose left him howling and stumbling backwards. Grabbing at it, he pulled away a bloodied handed, then growled savagely. Teeth bared, he charged, his right hook catching Remington in the left cheek.

It was the only blow he'd land. The rage of Remington's youth, which Daniel had once described to Laura, didn't hold a candle to the fury he'd held at bay over the last year. All his skills, all the tricks, he'd learned on the streets where he'd needed to fight merely to survive, were put to use. A right hook, another jab, a foot stomped into an instep, a knee to the groin, followed by an upper cut. He recalled every injury Roselli had suffered upon Laura, every nightmare he'd soothed her after, the vision of her on her knees and a gun cocked, pointed, ready to fire… Of watching her slide down the wall of that cabin, beaten, bloodied, clothes torn, unmoving. The months of healing in the aftermath of what she'd been subjected to, all the while convincing herself it was she who had drawn the man sites upon her, that perhaps, she'd 'asked' for in some way. He swung, landing blow after blow, until Roselli slumped to the floor and then, delivered several kicks to the degenerate's ribs, as had been done to himself by the goons Roselli had hired. Only when the man lay, eyes rolling towards the back of his head, did he stop. He bent over Roselli's prone figure, and grabbed a handful of hair, yanking him up into a partial sitting position.

"Breathe my wife's name again… Speak of her as you did in court again…" he seethed, "And I promise you, we'll have another little visit, and when we're done, I'll cut out your tongue and feed it to you. Do I make myself clear, Antony?"

Roselli spit out a mouthful of blood and shards of couple of broken teeth, but belligerently refused to answer. Only when Remington cocked back an arm, preparing to take aim at his nose again, did Roselli hold up a hand and grate out…

"I got it."

With that, Remington slammed his head into the concrete, knocking him out cold, then calmly rolled down his cuffs, secured them, and after putting watch and bracelet back on, picked up his jacket and knocked twice on the door. When the door swung open, he nodded to the guard.

"Send any bills to Marcos. He'll see to it I get them." The guard looked from the battered and bloody Roselli, to the man who looked prepared to go to a business meeting and none the worse for wear. The guard gave him a look of respect and gave a sharp nod of understanding, then watched as he strode away.

Laura, of course, had figured out what he'd been about in a matter of seconds. It had only taken one glance at the bruise forming against his cheekbone, and she'd picked up his hands one at a time to examine the bruised, bloodied and swollen knuckles. She let out a puff of air and looked up at him.

"Have you gotten it out of your system?" she asked, with a tilt of her head.

"I have," he confirmed.

"Then let's see what we can do about these hands," she said with a sigh, tugging at a hand for him to follow behind. He grimaced and yanked his hand away.

"Nurse Ratched, is it, then?" She grabbed his hand again, and pulled him towards the kitchen, ignoring his sharp inhale.

"If you want Florence Nightingale, stop doing foolish, pigheaded things," she retorted.

Her griping had been for, more or less, principle's sake. She'd known the minute he'd packed her off to shop, of all things, what his intentions were. He wouldn't be Remington Steele if he didn't feel duty bound to defend her honor. It was both one of his most endearing qualities… and most irritating. While she neither coddled nor babied him while she tended his wound, leading to many a grumble beneath his breath, she did squelch the urge to remind him she could take care of herself. That, in itself, was yet more progress, in her mind.

Their anniversary party, hosted by Marcos and Elena, had been crowded, noisy, and boisterous, typical of an Androkus affair. Mildred had been staggered by the hundreds who had come and gone throughout the evening. Laura had only laughed softly, as she'd expected nothing less, having been down this road a couple of times before. Champagne, Ouzo and toasts to the couple had flowed freely throughout the evening, and Laura had even been convinced by Melina to once again play some duets on the piano. She'd finished the evening's entertainment with a solo, a final gift to her husband: Chopin's Prelude in E Minor.

She'd been in high demand on the dance floor, much to Remington's disappointment, but, duty bound, she'd given each relative who had asked their turn. Zeth, by the end of their dance, was left fervently wishing he'd never requested her company upon the floor, for he'd forgotten until too late, the lesson Christos had been taught the prior summer, when his younger brother had served up Remington and Laura to Ioseph. As he limped off the dance floor, he glared at Christos and Remington, who'd both watched Laura's piece of revenge play out and had laughed throughout.

As the night had waned, and only the immediate Androkus family, Ioseph, Mildred, Laura and Remington had remained, Ioseph chose to unwisely overplay his hand. Remington had shared with the group how he'd flown home from London after discovering Laura had been hiding her illness from him, only for them to receive the news of her pregnancy the following morning. With a smug grin twitching at his lips, Ioseph leaned back in his chair, and fastened his gaze upon the couple.

"Thea Elena, you'll be most disappointed to learn, I'm sure, that Xenos and Laura lied to me – a Priest! – during their confessions three days past." Both Remington and Laura had started at the announcement, and laid shocked expressions upon the cousin.

"We did not!" Laura refuted vehemently.

"You choose to continue the charade, the dishonesty?" Ioseph boomed. "You deny any acts which require forgiveness, which damage your relationship with God, yet for three days I have listened as tale upon tale was shared in which you have committed both mortal and venial sins."

"Like _what?!_ " Her voice rose proportionately with how affronted she was.

"You have stolen," he nodded firmly. "Breaking into this Roselli's homes, taking his belongings…"

"To prove he murdered _two people_!" she defended. "How can it be a sin when it's for the greater good?!"

"You have dishonored your husband, denying your illness, encouraging others to lie on your behalf," he challenged.

"I didn't _lie_ , I just didn't tell him I was sick because I didn't want him to worry!" she refuted.

"You—"

"Enough!" Marcos thundered, as his hand slapped down hard upon the table, making the glasses shake. He turned a black look upon Ioseph. "You dare to disrupt the harmony of this evening? To accuse Xenos and Laura of lying in the confessional? To what end? For the mere thrill of tattling, a temptation which has followed you since childhood or because you feel your authority has been questioned? As you well know, Ioseph, an action can only be considered a sin when it is recognized as such during its commission! It appears to me your pride has been injured: You believed they'd been dishonest, had questioned your status, and in turn have acted with much pettiness in order to assuage your own ego. You have dishonored not only your cousin and his wife, in your acts, but your aunt and I as well by bringing such malice into a celebration we've hosted in our home. Proverbs 16:18, Ioseph. You can give it much thought during the month of Saturday's your presence will be required on the ship."

"Thios Marcos-" Ioseph began, having blanched at the thought of heavy manual labor in his future.

"You will do as you are told, Ioseph, or do you dare dishonor me further?" Ioseph looked to Elena for help, but at her look of displeasure acknowledged heavy labor it would be.

"Yes, Thios Marcos," he relented, sending a sulking glance in the direction of Laura and Remington.

"Now, we shall return to our enjoyment of the evening," Marcos directed.

The Steele's had returned to LA on Friday, retiring early to sleep off the jet lag so they would be revitalized for the following evening's events. Remington had, again, presented Laura with envelopes as his gifts to her for their anniversary. The first had included the deed to the house in the Cyclades. She'd immediately protested the need for _another_ house, but when told he'd purchased the house for one dollar with the understanding when they wished to let it go it would be sold back to the Androkus family for precisely the same sum, she'd relented. They'd made arrangements to replace the mattresses in the master bedroom, and had finally compromised on the children's room when she'd balked at changing anything about the room in which he'd once lived: they could move Melina's bed into storage and set up a crib in its place, but otherwise the room would remain unchanged.

The second envelope had held a much more practical gift, in her eyes: box seats at the ballet on the night following their return. It was only as they were falling to sleep on Wednesday night that it occurred to her what those tickets meant, and she'd sighed woefully. Shopping. It seemed she couldn't avoid it of late, despite her best efforts. She'd purchased an entire maternity wardrobe, but she hadn't thought of the possibility of requiring formal wear. As a conciliatory gesture, Remington agreed to accompany on her trip.

Now, she stood in front of the mirror, admiring the dress on which they'd compromised. The off the shoulder, red organza gown, featured an empire waist, to accommodate her growing stomach, and was floor length. It emphasized her slim form, yet hinted at her pregnancy when she moved in just the right way. He'd requested she wear her hair up for the evening, an oddity for the man who was forever plucking pins from her hair to bring it down so he might toy with it, and the ruby and diamond earrings he'd given her for Christmas hung from her ears while the matching necklace was clasped around her neck.

"My, my, my, you're positively stunning, love," Remington complimented, as he stepped behind her at the mirror, clad in his tux. His eyes traveled her length from floor upwards, seemingly distracted three-quarters of the way up by the flesh displayed by her bodice. Automatically, she grasped the material, trying to tug it upwards a bit more. When she'd tried on the dress in the store, he'd had much the same reaction to the cleavage in view, and when she'd looked down, she'd been stunned to see how much of her breasts were on display, which was followed by her amazement that she suddenly had that much breast _to_ display. He'd chuckled with amusement then, as a blush had spread over her skin, as he was doing now, while swatting her hands away from the bodice. "You can't fight nature, love," he reminded her, his bemusement making the song of Ireland dance through his words. With a touch of his lips against a bare shoulder, he'd eased her out of the bedroom before she could decide to change into a sedate pants suit.

They'd shared a romantic dinner at Chez Rives, a nod to the first place they'd dined, and had just settled into the backseat of the limo for the drive to the theater when the phone rang. Remington's lips tightened and he cast a beleaguered look her way when she reached for it.

"Hello?... Yes, Mildred… Slow down… _What?!_ " She looked at her sulking husband and had the decency to grimace. "Alright… Yes, tell him Mr. Steele and I will be there in fifteen minutes… It's alright, Mildred. The ballet will still be there tomorrow." She ignored the withering look her husband gave her at that, as well as the arms that crossed before he looked away from her and out the window. "Yes. I'll fill you in on Monday. Bye." When she hung up the phone, she gave Fred the address of their new destination, along with the direction he needn't linger to long at the lights. Remington turned his blue eyes on her expectantly, but never uttered a word. "A case," she announced, as though he hadn't heard.

"I thought we were off duty until Monday," he reminded her.

"We are… or at least were." She filled him in on what Mildred had told her. "Our client's in trouble, Mr. Steele," she rationalized. "His blackmailer's just been found dead in the ballroom of the hotel he manages. This isn't something that can wait."

"He could call the LAPD," he pointed out.

"And he will, once we've had a chance to go through the crime scene, see if any clues have been left behind." He remained resolutely silent. "You know as well as I, he'll be considered the prime suspect once the LAPD gets wind he was being blackmailed." When still he didn't respond, she resolved that the rest of the drive to the hotel would be made in silence.

Turning away from him, she gazed out the window next to her and wondered if he'd recognized, by name and address of the hotel, the significance this place held in their lives, even more so, that very ballroom where the body had been found. It was the place they'd ever had their first argument, their first dance. It was where she'd discovered the man seated next to her now, as then, was the imposter who'd swiped her fictitious Remington Steele's identity. A smile danced on her lips as she remembered his sheer audacity in having done so, and how if he hadn't, they wouldn't have just celebrated their first anniversary, wouldn't have had the last five years. The sentimentalism of it all was enough to make her forgive him for his current snit… as long as he snapped out of it when they met with their client.

Put out or not, his manners, as always, were impeccable, offering her a hand and assisting her from the car, then guiding her across the lobby and down the long hallway with his hand at her back. With a final look of displeasure directed her way and a shake of his head, he plastered a smile on his face, and swung open the door, indicating she should enter before him.

Then promptly grimaced and grabbed his foot, when her heel landed solidly in the middle of it as she jumped backwards, startled by the rousing chorus of "Surprise" shouted when she'd entered. She turned and bestowed on him a smile so dazzling, it made every second of planning this evening – as well as his throbbing foot - worth the effort.

"Conspiring with Mildred, Mr. Steele?" she guessed. He tugged at his ear and gave her a lopsided smile.

"And perhaps Mrs. Wolf," he confirmed. "Happy Anniversary, Mrs. Steele," he told her in an undertone, then brushed his lips against her cheek.

The idea for the evening had begun to form the night they'd returned from their honeymoon, and had lounged on the floor of his apartment opening the wedding gifts that had been found on every surface in the flat when they'd arrived. Another cost to her, it was, for his moment of insanity in thinking to marry Clarissa to right his INS problems: No wedding reception with her family and friends dancing attendance, fussing and fawning over her, admiring her dress, begging for a dance, offering their congratulations. Yes, she'd had a bit of a taste of it after their second wedding in Greece, but with his family while _hers_ had been conspicuously absent. From time-to-time over the months, he'd revisited the troublesome thought, and, in those days of his recovery, when he was sentenced to long days of recovery spent mostly at home, an idea had begun to form: An anniversary party in which she might at last enjoy some of the frippery and attention denied to her by his acts.

Holding the affair at the hotel where they'd first argued, danced and he'd swiped the identity of Remington Steele had come to him out of the blue, but once it had, its appeal had been so undeniable, he couldn't vanquish it. What better way to celebrate their joined lives than within the walls of the place that had set them on the path of the often titillating, often frustrating journey to where they were now? She'd wear red, he'd decided, her hair up and her shoulders bare, just like on that evening five years before. It would take a bit of cunning on his part to make certain she fulfilled his vision in red, but he was up to the challenge. After all, he'd taken on the impossible challenge of stealing Laura Holt's heart and had come away the victor, hadn't he?

Her realization she had nothing to wear for an evening at the ballet had been a stroke of luck. Kismet, at its finest. In the store, she'd appeared in a half dozen different dresses, all of which he'd quickly dismissed as unworthy of her beauty. A sight to behold in each of them she'd been, in truth, but not the vision he'd clung to since he conjured it up in his mind. Then, at last, there she'd been – all that he'd dreamed of – draped in red, those dazzling freckles displayed in all their glory. He'd not had to feign interest, had meant to convey casual approval, but his blood had heated at the mere sight of her, and his eyes had feasted hungrily upon those dapples of color, the lovely column of a neck and he'd not spoken so much as a syllable when she turned to the saleswoman and told her to 'ring it up.' Ah, that was his Laura, able to read his every thought – a distinctly annoying trait most days, absolutely beguiling all the rest.

The evening had been an unqualified success, in his eyes, if the smile that lit her face over the hours was to be given any merit, and even it were dismissed, one could not deny the unhidden joy in those lovely, shimmering brown eyes. They'd mingled, laughed and danced with family, friends, former clients and requisite business contacts. As the night had begun to wind down, they'd taken to the dance floor to steal the first private moments for themselves that they'd had on the evening. As they melded into one another's arms, he brushed a wayward curl back over her ear.

"Enjoyed yourself tonight, have you?" he queried. Her eyes held his, as her hand glided over his shoulder then back again, so her fingers could toy with the hair at his collar.

"I have," she answered, simply. "A bit daring to bring us back to the scene of the crime, so to speak, don't you think?" she asked, lifting her brows at him.

"Mmmm," he hummed, "Perhaps."

"But, to give credit where credit's due," she amended, as her hand was on the move again, down his back then gliding back up, "No one does romance quite like you." The comment earned a lopsided grin, before he sobered and leaned down to hold his lips close to her ear.

"Anything for my Ilsa," he reminded her quietly, before standing tall again.

"This is the first place we ever danced," she reminisced.

"And the first time I saw a display of that glorious temper of yours," he reminded her, daring a four-step spin that left her smiling and a bit breathless, taken by surprise.

"All things considered," she added, thoughtfully, "You did the mythical Remington Steele proud that evening: Well-spoken, debonair… humble even."

* * *

 _ **"Thank you, thank you. You're most generous with your applause. But it would be unworthy of Remington Steele if he didn't single out his most able and most valued associate. Truly, the woman behind the man, Miss Laura Holt. Please, Miss Holt, stand up and take a well-deserved bow. And now, you have far more interesting things to look at than me. So, please, Mr. Hunter. Show us your creation."**_

* * *

"A role, it seems, I was destined to play," he shrugged off, as his thumb caressed the small of her back, leading her to press closer to him, as he knew she would.

"Or the man you were meant to be," she mulled. "Disconcerting all the same."

"Care to elaborate?" He lifted a brow in curiosity. She gnawed at her lip for a long second, then with a short, gusty sigh, plunged in.

"It's not often a woman creates a boss from whole cloth, only to find herself with the living, breathing, rendition standing in front of her. Then to watch that man change, who he was, what he was, until he fit all the ideals she'd created in her mind, yet… in the end, being far more than she'd ever dare to imagine." She looked away from him, brows furrowing, as she absently caressed his shoulder. "Never sure if this was who he was, who he wanted to be, or if it was a role foisted on him, one he'd eventually tire of, then…" She left the thought unsaid.

"Leave?"

"Yes," she admitted breathily, reluctantly. He took a breath and let it out slowly, then nodded his head. _Tit-for-tat, old sport_ , he prodded himself. It was the barrier they'd never truly spoken of, yet had always existed between them from the very start.

"I know what you mean, as I've experienced similar… difficulties." He garnered her full attention with those words, and she lifted brown eyes to stare at him.

"Oh?" He diverted his gaze from her.

"To spend years changing who you are, how you think, even your very instincts, to become the person someone else needs you to be…" He returned his eyes to her, "…Who you _wish_ to be." He averted his head again. "Always wondering if you'll ever be truly forgiven for the way you forced your way into someone else's life… if you'll ever be seen as the man you are now, instead of who you were then. All the while knowing, _one slip_ , one return to the way of thinking which had carried you nearly all your life, would mean any progress made would be gone, and you'd be left at scratch, trying to prove all over again that this is who you not only saw yourself as, but all you wanted to be."

"Yet, here we are," she reminded him, laying a palm against his cheek.

"Yet, here we are," he agreed, blue eyes twinkling down at her. Her delightful laugh suddenly filled his ears. "What's amused you so?" he inquired.

"A memory," she smiled. "The first movie quote you ever bestowed on me. 'Years from now, when you talk of this, and you will, please, be kind.'"

" _Tea and Sympathy,_ John Kerr, Deborah Kerr, MGM, 1956," he recited automatically, then laughed warmly, understanding why the thought had come to her. "Seems to me we're doing exactly that: speaking kindly of that time."

"Fondly," she corrected. "We're speaking fondly of that time." Her hand trekked down his back and up again. "We've come a long way, Mr. Steele." Nodding, he tugged her closer until her head was resting on his shoulder.

"That we have, Mrs. Steele. That we have."

* * *

 _ **A/N: This concludes 'Season 5.' Thank you for taking this journey with me. ~ RSteele82**_


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